


Things We Value

by Dana



Series: Patterns-verse [4]
Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-28
Updated: 2014-08-28
Packaged: 2018-05-16 11:46:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 27,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5827429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dana/pseuds/Dana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What it all boils down to is matters of trust.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a super old story of mine, originally posted at the **lifein1973** LJ community back in August of 2014.
> 
> POV alternates between Gene and Sam. There's some direct back and forth at the start of it (plus some more of it later on), but mostly it branches off and takes things in different directions. Still probably the most graphic thing I've written when it comes to violence/torture, and I used to feel bad about it but not anymore. Beta by **little_cello**. Fits into the Patterns-verse.

One of these days, Sam Tyler is going to be the death of him. Gene reckons it to be a very long, drawn out sort of death, one with no lack of poncy dramatics, long annoying words and a certain and staggering amount of what always boils down to utter belligerence on Sam's part. Which, all in all, really isn't anything new – been an obstinate pain in the arse from the moment Gene met him, and time's done nothing to make Sam settle down. Of course, not that Gene would ever expect anything less. Whatever Sam does, he likes to do it well, and he's refined pig-headed stubbornness into fine bloody art.

That is, the way Gene looks at it, he wouldn't have Sam any other way. Nobody stands against him the way Sam does, nobody keeps him thinking, goes that extra mile to turn Gene's life into an over-complicated mess. For all that Sam is delusional at times – an utter loon, acts like he's from another planet, like he's trapped outside of time – he's Gene's nutty DI. That differentiation matters.

Not that Sam needs to know.

So Gene knocks back his flask and shrugs, tastes the whisky and feels it burn on the way down, leans back against the wall, sighs at the poster there as though it at least should understand. 'Richard Mackey,' Gene says, very carefully, 'is a man with a grudge. I once had a hand in trying to take him down – almost got him, we did, but he's a right slippery bastard – and I won't be happy unless I'm able to finish what got started. And that, Gladys, is the bloody end of that.'

That is, he's an utter bastard and we've history together, history you couldn't understand. I get what he's capable of, just one more thing you can't bloody grasp.

He focuses on Sam, the long, tense lines of his body – he'd been pacing, but now he stops, swivels round on his heels and glares daggers at Gene, opens his mouth to respond, reconsiders, and crosses his arms rather sulkily instead. It's times like this that Gene wants to throw him against something hard and kiss him, good and proper, but no good ever comes of that, at least when it happens at work. No good seems connected to it at all, actually, but it is what it is, and it keeps on happening.

He's quiet right now, but that's not going to last – it never does – and he must have decided that he'd been quiet ten whole seconds, which means it's time to natter on again. He licks his lips, distractedly, shakes his head, stubbornly, and the words just start pouring out (as they just sometimes do): 'If you had some sort of, oh, I don't know, _evidence_ to back this up, we might just have a case. You can't bring him in because you have a _feeling_ that he's involved, Gene, you just can't. He wasn't anywhere near the scene of the crime, there's nothing that ties him to it either, and you wouldn't have even brought him up if you hadn't seen him at that completely _unrelated_ pub.'

Sam had begun pacing halfway through, his shoulders hunched over and his face scrunched and annoying – but also annoyed-looking. Gene knocks his flask back once more, because otherwise he might have laughed. Then Sam sighs – a very heavy, weary sigh – and he shakes his head, gaze shifting back onto Gene. 'I thought we were past this, Gene. I really did.'

'to get past, Tyler,' Gene grumbles, gestures, flask still in hand. 'This is just how it is – you do this, you always do this. I have a hunch, and my hunch is right. Anyhow, if he didn't want me thinking he was guilty, he should have kept his bloody mouth shut.' Sam stops and scowls at him, and he uncrosses his arms to gesture wildly in Gene's general direction. Sometimes, just looking at Sam tires him out, like Sam has no intention, ever, of just backing down.

Not that he'd ever really want him to, of course.

'Look, Sam, you don't know Mackey the way I do – this is just his sort of mess.' Because the man is a right bastard, and one who's good at wriggling away. 'Armed blag and a murder on top of it, just reeks of him, it does. Third in as many weeks. It's him, Sam, I know it's him. How is it we never quite manage to see eye to eye?'

Sam, though, screws up his face, snapping: 'So you say. But Mackey was pretty quiet about it all, wasn't he? Not much for him to say, not when you were so busy _putting words in his mouth_. Really, I get it, Guv, you don't like the man – and it's clear, he most certainly doesn't like you.' Sam actually rolls his eyes, looks like he might just laugh. Might be a change, that, because it's been too long since he'd heard Sam laugh. 'Don't know what he doesn't see in you, though. You're the most likeable man I've ever had the good fortune to know.'

Sarcasm, and Gene snorts, leaning back – he's about to just laugh out loud, might be a change in that, too – and then Sam gestures wildly once more, sighs and puts his hands up. No laughing matter, right. Of course, it's not that Sam has much in the way of a sense of humour, even on the best of days (but Gene's hardly being fair). Somehow manages to surprise Gene, though, when he's not being a stubborn git.

Not the best of days, this.

'You have issues, Gene, and I know how you don't like being told you're wrong – '

Gene shrugs. 'Fair enough, I suppose. Pot, kettle, that sort of thing.'

Sam rolls his eyes once more, not even budging, and Gene smirks and pushes away from the wall, and strides towards Sam. Keeps on walking, even as he adjusts his route, and has Sam stumbling backwards, ending when he knocks back against the filing cabinet. Then he's right in Sam's (what would he he have called it?) Right – _personal space_ and Gene looks down his nose at him, because he still appreciates those moments where he catches Sam off guard. What would his mam have said? Ah yes, make sure to enjoy the simple things in life. Never know when it'll be gone, so appreciate it all the ways you can.

'Ack – what – errph!'

Gene quirks an eyebrow, almost laughs in Sam's face. 'What the hell kind of noise noise – look, I don't actually care.' He shrugs, puts one hand on the filing cabinet, leans in close – closer – and Sam's Adam's apple bobs as he swallows, eyes wide and panicked – it's a rather good look on him, really. Him and his too expressive eyes. 'Tomorrow morning,' Gene starts, with what must be his most amicable grin, 'I'm bringing Richard Mackey in, because I know what I feel and I know what I'm doing, and there's nothing you can do to stop me. And that – ' he puts one hand on Sam's shoulder, gives a none-too-gentle push, ' – is the end of that, Sammy-boy. You've lost, so stand down.'

Sam's eyes darken, then spark with fire – that's his Sam, fighting to the end. 'Maybe I will, as soon as _you_ do the same. You can't do it this way, Gene, you know you can't. If you don't follow the rules and Mackey _is_ guilty, then what if you bollocks it all up and he ends up walking free?'

Gene smirks. Doesn't move, Sam pinned against him, against the filing cabinet, and Sam lifts one hand and makes an odd jerking gesture with it, to the right and then back. 'What? Dammit Gene, stop looming! Hit me and be done with it.' Doesn't want to be the one to throw the first punch, that's fine – maybe Gene doesn't want to be that one either, at least this once. Looming is much more fun.

Gene doesn't stop smirking. Sam swallows once more, fidgets. 'Right, right – whatever! Two can play at this game, Gene.'

Gene laughs, and Sam looks sideways, slumping back against the filing cabinet, suddenly less tense. The fight isn't gone from him, burning low instead. This is hardly the last of it, but it's a good enough victory, or so Gene thinks. It counts. He lifts his hand, and traces the curve of Sam's cheek with the pad of his thumb.

'That's not a good idea. You know it's not, Guv.'

'Course not, Gladys,' Gene replies, perhaps a bit gruffly. 'Don't think I'll forget it, though. Consider yourself put on my list of things to do.'

'Didn't know you were into making lists, Guv.'

'One more bad habit I managed to pick up, all thanks to you.'

Sam's eyes spark once more – and then, very quietly, he laughs. 'Maybe I'm not that easy, ever thought about that?'

Gene rolls his eyes at that, and he laughs, louder than Sam had. 'Hell, isn't that the truth of it. Never have been, can't say you ever will be, either.'

Sam's lips twitch in amusement. 'Wouldn't know what to do with me if I wasn't.' Then he sighs, shifting one arm, rubbing at his forehead. 'Go on then, Gene – I'll meet you at the pub. I've reports to type up. Tomorrow we can bring Richard Mackey in and you can dazzle him with the old Hunt charm.'

'Sam Tyler, always the life of the party.' Gene's lips shift, utterly amused. 'I'll consider saving you a drink.'

Looking his DI over – the tense line of his jaw, the stubborn pride shining in his whisky dark eyes – Gene gives in to his baser urges and shoves Sam hard against the filing cabinet, almost smirking, though then he straightens his tie and turns, leaving Sam behind.

–

_One of these days, Gene Hunt is going to drive Sam properly insane. He feels mad enough already, but there's something about Gene (mostly where it comes to trying to understand him, which he normally feels like he has some sort of proper handle on) that is going to send Sam fully round the bend. You'd think at this point – a year on in – they wouldn't still be butting heads over procedural differences, and yet, here they are. Gene is still obtuse and pig-headed, and only mildly less inclined to go on homophobic rants (and don't even get him started on the all too colourful racist remarks – Gene is, other than the fact that he happens to be fond of buggering his DI silly, definitely a man of the times). So it isn't that he can't adapt – he very clearly can – but there are certain basic things that make Gene **Gene** , and they aren't the sort of things that Sam ever thinks will change._

_Sam's scowling at this point, and Gene takes a long drink from his flask – he scowls right back at Sam, though it's half a pout. 'Richard Mackey,' he says, very deliberately, 'is a man with a grudge. I once had a hand in trying to take him down – almost got him, we did, but he's a right slippery bastard – and I won't be happy unless I'm able to finish what got started. And that, Gladys, is the bloody end of that.'_

_Sam, who'd been pacing, swivels round on his heels and scowls at Gene once more – practically glares – and he opens his mouth to say something, anything, but he doesn't actually know what to say. Or if it would have the desired effect. He huffs, exhaling, and folds his arms across his chest instead. The way Gene's looking at him, it's like Sam knows he wants to get physical – and of course he does – but Sam isn't going to make this easy on him. He hardly ever does._

_Shaking his head, Sam wets his lips. He rocks back on his heels, very nearly sighs. 'If you had some sort of, oh, I don't know, _evidence_ to back this up, we might just have a case. You can't bring him in because you have a _feeling_ that he's involved, Gene, you just can't. He wasn't anywhere near the scene of the crime, there's nothing that ties him to it either, and you wouldn't have even brought him up if you hadn't seen him at that completely _unrelated_ pub.'_

_He knows he's making sense, but Gene hardly ever accepts him at face value. Sam's pacing once more, almost worried he'll wear off the heels of his boots. Gene rolls his eyes – doesn't even look like he'd been aware of it – and takes another drink from his flask instead. Then Sam sighs – a very heavy, weary sigh – and he shakes his head. 'I thought we were past this, Gene. I really did.'_

_'Nothing to get past, Tyler,' Gene grumbles, gestures, flask still in hand. 'This is just how it is – you do this, you always do this. I have a hunch, and my hunch is right. Anyhow, if he didn't want me thinking he was guilty, he should have kept his bloody mouth shut.' Sam stops and scowls at Gene more, and he feels like he'll end up throwing his hands in the air – he halfway does – and this isn't the end of it. It's hardly the start._

_'Look, Sam, you don't know Mackey the way I do – this is just his sort of mess.'_

_Sam wants to tell him, then prove it to me, Gene. Tell me why Richard Mackey is a criminal, and make me believe. As it is there's no evidence to incriminate him, and life with Gene is too much of a struggle as it is – he's not going to let Gene send an innocent man down._

_'Armed blag and a murder on top of it, just reeks of him, it does. Third in as many weeks. It's him, Sam, I know it's him. How is it we never quite manage to see eye to eye?'_

_Sam wonders that himself. What he says, though, is: 'So you say. But Mackey was pretty quiet about it all, wasn't he? Not much for him to say, not when you were so busy **putting words in his mouth**. Really, I get it, Guv, you don't like the man – and it's clear, he most certainly doesn't like you.' Exhaling slowly, Sam rolls his eyes – almost shakes his head – and it's really tiring, and it makes him want to laugh. 'Don't know what he doesn't see in you, though. You're the most likeable man I've ever had the good fortune to know.'_

_Gene snorts – Sam's sarcasm isn't lacking – and Sam watches Gene as the latter leans back. He doesn't want to fight, but Gene is too good at getting at him, being too obstinate. He's very much set in his ways. That gets at him, just like it always does. Sam throws his hands up in the air._

_'You have issues, Gene, and I know how you don't like being told you're wrong – '_

_Gene shrugs. 'Fair enough, I suppose. Pot, kettle, that sort of thing.'_

_Sam rolls his eyes once more, not even budging, and Gene smirks and pushes away from the wall, and strides towards Sam. Sam keeps his gaze focused on Gene as he approaches, and once he realises that Gene's not backing off, next thing he's properly aware of is his shoulder pressing back against the filing cabinet. Gene's everywhere, his presence has a way of saturating Sam's senses completely, his aftershave and the smell of whisky and smoke that always clings to him. He'd never have thought it a very appealing mixture, but times do change._

_Still, Gene is hovering inside Sam's personal space, has made it into his own. Now Gene's looking down at him, just staring down his nose, and he's smirking and it's probably the most infuriating thing Sam's seen all day._

_The gears in Sam's mind finally move to action, and the rest of him – back against the filing cabinet – remembers to react. 'Ack – what – errph!'_

_Gene quirks an eyebrow, looks as though he means to laugh in Sam's face. 'What the hell kind of noise – look, I don't actually care.' He shrugs, puts one hand on the filing cabinet, leans in close – closer – and Sam almost chokes on his first response, just ends up swallowing instead. 'Tomorrow morning,' Gene starts, and his grin is frustratingly cheerful, 'I'm bringing Richard Mackey in, because I know what I feel and I know what I'm doing, and there's nothing you can do to stop me. And that – ' he puts one hand on Sam's shoulder, gives a none- too-gentle push, ' – is the end of that, Sammy-boy. You've lost, so stand down.'_

_Sam almost gives in – because it would be too easy to give in – but that thought passes in a moment, because he's not good at standing down. 'Maybe I will, as soon as **you** do the same. You can't do it this way, Gene, you know you can't. If you don't follow the rules and Mackey **is** guilty, then what if you bollocks it all up and he ends up walking free?'_

_Gene smirks. He's standing right there, and Sam is pinned against filing cabinet. He could slip sideways easy enough, but Sam doesn't actually want to make this easy at all. Maybe he really is too accustomed to letting Gene get his way. Maybe it's just that they aren't close enough at work, punch ups aside. Still, he doesn't need Gene thinking that he likes this – especially since Gene already knows that he likes this – so he scowls, somewhat half-hearted, and lifts his chin. 'What? Dammit Gene, stop looming! Hit me and be done with it.' But Gene doesn't move, just keeps on smirking, doesn't seem to be the one to throw the first punch. Well, Sam doesn't have to be that person either. He can meet Gene's pig-headedness with full force, after all. Of course, the look on Gene's face is too smug, and completely maddening – Sam almost wants to kiss that look right off Gene's face, and he very nearly does. They always do have to take care. Sam is worried that Annie, especially, is beginning to suspect._

_Still, the way Gene looks at him – and how close he is – and it seems like it's been too long, really. Sam can't help but fidget, which he does, and Gene seems to enjoy his uneasiness completely. 'Right, right – whatever! Two can play at this game, Gene.'_

_Gene laughs, and it's funny how that works to defuse the situation – Sam feels his tension releasing, and he sighs and slumps back against the filing cabinet. He's neither given up nor in, but he can afford to concede the moment to Gene. Then Sam's breath catches, and he blinks slowly as Gene touches his cheek, tracing a line with his thumb. And it's bold, it really is, Gene even putting his hand on Sam's cheek, like it wasn't a terribly dangerous thing for him to have just done. It **is** nice, though, nice in ways that defied proper words. It was an inevitability that Sam never could have imagined, not when he'd first staggered into 1973. But it certainly had been an inevitable thing._

_Sam wets his lips, hardly aware of it. 'That's not a good idea. You know it's not, Guv.'_

_'Course not, Gladys,' Gene replies, perhaps a bit gruffly. 'Don't think I'll forget it, though. Consider yourself put on my list of things to do.'_

_'Didn't know you were into making lists, Guv.'_

_'One more bad habit I managed to pick up, all thanks to you.'_

_Sam grins, almost laughs – not a terrible place to be. 'Maybe I'm not that easy, ever thought about that?'_

_Gene rolls his eyes at that, and he laughs, louder than Sam had. 'Hell, isn't that the truth of it. Never have been, can't say you ever will be, either.'_

_Sam's lips twitch in amusement. 'Wouldn't know what to do with me if I wasn't.' Then he sighs, shifting one arm, rubbing at his forehead. Really, though, he needs to stop letting Gene thing that he's won._

_Still, Sam has a point to make. 'Go on then – I'll meet you at the pub. I've reports to type up. Tomorrow we can bring Richard Mackey in and you can dazzle him with the old Hunt charm.'_

_'Sam Tyler, the life of the party.' Gene's lips twitch, utterly amused. 'I'll consider saving you a drink.'_

_Then Gene gives Sam one more shove back against the filing cabinet, lets off him, straightening his tie and then striding away._

_It's a half hour later when Sam is finished with the last of his work, but when he leaves CID he knows he won't be heading to the pub, but to Richard Mackey's office instead. The man always works late. He'll make sure Richard sees how serious this is, what extremes Gene is willing to go to just to see him go down._

–

Only then, it's two and a half hours later and Sam hasn't come to the Arms yet, and a half hour after that Gene kicks in Sam's door because the bloody ponce is being stubborn and silent and won't just open the door and let him inside. He'd had plans – frankly, he has a much better bed – but if Sam's going to play at being stubborn, well, then Gene can too.

However, there's no sign of Sam, doesn't look like he's been in at all – and Gene shakes his head, runs a hand back through his hair, before pulling out one of his flasks and taking a swig. 'Bloody hell,' he mutters.

He doesn't think anything about Sam not being in, because he's clearly off somewhere being girly and moody (maybe it's his time of the month). He closes the door behind him, and leaves Sam's empty flat be.

Doesn't even think about Richard Mackey and what a bastard he is, even though. Even though.

Sam has to show up, eventually. He always does.

–

Still, Gene's left thinking: he really should have kissed Sam when he had the chance, though, just to show that he could.

–

_Sam wakes, adrenaline surging through him though all he manages, in those first waking moments, is to groan in pain. Almost funny, how it takes him a long moment to really sort himself out – because the last he could recall, he hadn't been bound and he hadn't been gagged, and he certainly hadn't been sitting in the dark. He's very much awake now, darkness stretching out all around him, cold seeping into his bones, but he can't remember what brought him here, not over the pounding in his head. He can tell it's more than just his head that's hurting, but the remainder of the pain seems to be a dull, distant thing. He needs to focus on where he is, and what he needs to do get free. Take account of your surroundings, Sam – at least, as well as you can._

_Not too bloody well, not at all._

_His hands are bound behind him, doesn't feel like cuffs, perhaps leather cord instead, at least given how it alternately bites and slides into his skin as he twists his hands in an effort to get free. He remembers Gene and leaving CID, he remembers how he meant to go to pub once he'd had a talk with Richard Mackey – only, well, given his current situation, he obviously never made it that far._

_His nostrils flare as he tries to suck in a full breath, but there's a sharp pain in his side that's equal parts dull and stabbing, something that burns through the adrenaline, and he exhales so quickly his breath rattles and wheezes as he does. Afterwards, he's left feels dizzy and sick, head nodding forward, sagging beneath the weight._

_Someone has to come check on him, eventually. Until then, other that wring his hands in attempt to free himself, to try and keep himself from panicking, trapped in the dark, all Sam can do is wait._

_–_

_And Sam's left thinking: he really should have kissed Gene when he had been able, though, because he's not sure if he'll end up with another chance._


	2. Chapter 2

'The Boss? Haven't seen him this morning, Guv – must be running late.' Chris shrugs, takes a drink of his coffee. Gene just nods at him, feeling annoyed more than actually perturbed. A bit too hungover, and his mind's a bit too clouded. Not seeing the forest for the trees, whatever that really means.

Ringing Sam isn't the most reliable way of finding him, given that he doesn't always leave the phone connected, and then there's those times where he's so far out in la la land he's probably landed on Mars. Less of that latter, these days, but still – there's precedence on the matter. So Gene makes an excuse to question a new lead on the Wilmslow Road robbery and murder, but once he's inside the Cortina he's speeding off towards Sam's flat.

No need to kick the door in this time, because it isn't even locked – in fact, the room inside is unchanged from the way that Gene had last seen it, that having been two nights before. The bed is still unmade, room smelling of the culmination of his and Sam's life together, fit inside one cramped flat – smoke and whisky, wine and something specifically Sam, something Gene can't properly name. Oh, and sex, that too, salt and sweat. So, those hours between, there's a heavy stillness in the air that makes the shitty little flat seem oddly unused. In fact, Gene's half gone through perturbed and half into worried.

Edging a bit over that, the first bit of fear creeping cold along his spine – not that he'd let it be said.

–

_He hears the scrape of a door opening, a slow drag across a cement floor, and the light goes on and Sam is wincing, momentarily blinded, having too long been left sitting in the dark. The pain in his side varies between a dull aching and a sharp stabbing, and he knows that can't be good, though right now it's more of the former than the latter. He tries to breathe in and he can't quite do it as well as he'd like, and he still can't piece together what brought him here, other than the fact that a good kicking had been involved. Kidnapped and, on top of that, the possibility of fractured ribs._

_'Ahhh,' a rough laugh. 'Looks like our guest's awake.'_

_He can't make out the features, because the person in front of him is a dark blob, overexposed, and Sam cringes, trying to make himself focus. He blinks several times, and he feels the gag being pulled out of his mouth. Though his first knee-jerk reaction is to spit in the man's face, he needs to play it cool because, while it's obvious he's in trouble, he doesn't know how bad it really is._

_But he's thinking it's very bad._

_So he blinks once more, though the man's features are still drenched in black and shadow, breathes out slow and then inhales just the same, laboured and hesitant. 'What do you want?' He has to grit his teeth against the pain._

_Another rough laugh, and the man pats Sam's cheek – he jerks himself away too late. 'Your boss is giving my boss a hard time, is all. And my boss, well, he thinks your boss needs to be reminded of his place. Just hope he feels like playing along, because otherwise you'll be meeting with a very messy end.'_

_Sam opens his mouth to retort – takes a stuttering breath instead that makes him dizzy, the pain in his side flaring as he tries to breathe in too deeply, and all at once. Sam wheezes, still trying to work his mouth, and then he's blinking at the tears that suddenly burn in his eyes – but the gag gets shoved back in his mouth, firmly tied. He tries to kick out at the man, but he has no leverage and he isn't placed very well, but it was worth a shot. Because Sam can't stop fighting, Sam can't just let whatever is going to happen, **happen**._

_All the man does is laugh, amused by Sam's struggles. No. No struggling. He can fight but that doesn't mean he has to be obvious, he has to keep a clear head and he has to keep focused. Sam knows it's going to be tough going, a proper fight to survive, since his head is still pounding, since – oh, he doesn't really know. Given his propensity for head injuries, he really hopes he's not concussed. Hardly seems like the worst of it, though. It must be the pain (dull sharp agony) and the dizziness (pitch and tilt) working together that has him fighting off hysterics – it would be less than appropriate if he ended up laughing out loud. Somehow he's able to stamp down on that urge. Anyhow, the constant pain is more worrisome. He's moved too much, that much is clear. The dull throbbing in his side is more like a sharp stabbing now, and he can hardly think through the pain._

_Head injuries aside, that's the more worrisome thing. Sam should have tried to say something about it, but he is very nearly certain that they wouldn't have actually cared. If they're trying to make a point, he doubts it matters if he's alive or dead._

–

It's later that afternoon when Gene brings Richard Mackey in, doesn't have a warrant but he doesn't need a bloody warrant, not when Sam's has gone missing during a case where Mackey is the prime suspect, not when Gene knows the bastard as well as he does. Because Gene has seen this happen before, and Mackey already got away with it once. When Gene himself was just a PC his DCI's second in command went missing, and three days later, was found deader than dead. Dead and broken and – Gene shuts his eyes, roughly rubs his forehead, then his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose.

Can't think that. Can't. It's something he doesn't want to remember, something that can't be real.

Still, even then, there was nothing to pin on him, but that didn't stop Gene _knowing_ he'd been the one to do it, just knew it, but just knowing hadn't been enough. Never really was.

And he can't let _that_ happen to Sam, even though it might have already happened to Sam. He should have tried bloody harder to make Sam see the _sense_ he was trying to make. Well, more than that, maybe Sam should have just trusted him this once. But then, maybe Gene should have trusted _Sam_. Let him know he was ever even at risk. Because it's his fault that Sam's a part of this now, and now that Gene's let that thought slip out, he feels it eating at his insides, like a pack of savage animals, ripping and shredding and tearing him apart.

At least at this point, it being a quarter to eleven in the a.m., and with Gene not having seen Sam in near enough to seventeen hours, he knows enough of how Mackey works to know Sam must still be alive, and maybe this time, _maybe_ , he'll dig deep enough and get the bastard for all the pain and suffering he's caused. In fact, for all that was done to that poor sod of a DI all those years ago – and the thought makes Gene feel even more sick – the fun might not have even properly begun.

–

_He's been left in the dark once more, his only company being throbbing pain and the strained sound of his own shallow breathing. Sam's dizzy, weak, and consciousness blurs around him. He feels sick, like he'll sick up at any moment, but he doesn't want that, doesn't want to choke on his gag. Anyhow, he's hungry, that too, but his stomach is empty, so maybe he'd be lucky and he'd only dry heave. What a thing to think about, really – sometimes, because he's drifting between shadow and light, conscious and not, he doesn't even remember where he is. He's aware at one point of a hand on his face, a voice hovering somewhere above him, pointing out how awful he looks, and maybe they should just put him out of his misery. Apparently it's not time for that, though, haven't heard from Mr Mackey quite yet, can't go on without word from the boss._

_The realisation that Gene was right, that Mackey is involved, hits Sam like a physical blow, and he doubles over as best as he is able, bound as he is. Whimpers. His breathing is only more laboured, the pain is too much. It doesn't matter anymore that he needs to keep fighting, because he's tired, too tired, and what he needs is sleep and sleep and **sleep** , and never to wake up._

–

Mackey is sitting there, arms crossed, smug bastard that he is, so smug in fact that Gene wants to beat that look right off his face. Gene's rage flares – he'd done a good job of keeping himself in check, knowing he needed to keep a level head, because if he pushed the wrong buttons then maybe Mackey would change the unspoken rules of his twisted little game, and Sam would end up dead. Still, with that in mind, a certain amount of roughing up is expected from him, really, because Richard Mackey knows him too bloody well. Gene grabs hold of Mackey by the hair, knocks his head into the table, three times, leaves him gasping and groaning with a gash in his forehead and what could very well be a broken nose, blood dripping down his face. Even knowing what he knows, that pushing too much isn't what he wants, Gene's only vaguely aware of Ray and Chris having to pull him off – because he would have bloody well killed him, he _would_ have, it being the only thing he deserves.

Maybe he might have even said as much, but they definitely had tp pull him off.

Couldn't do that though, could he? Never would find Sam if he did.

After that, all Gene can do is straighten his tie and exit the room, leaving Richard Mackey behind him, a crumpled, moaning mess on the floor. CID can't rest. Gene can't stop. 'cause this isn't over until Sam is back, alive or dead. Hopefully the former. So he orders them out, all of them – tells them to look everywhere. Leave no rock unturned. Because they have no lead and Mackey's definitely not talking, but Gene just can't _wait_.

'Hell, Guv, you could have killed him. We know the Boss – '

But he doesn't hear the rest of what Chris has to say, because Gene is up and moving, can't stop, _can't_ , because, because, _because_. Gene has to focus on this, has to let it drive him – and as long as Sam's just missing, Sam's not dead.

–

_'Come on then, copper – wake the hell up.'_

_Someone is gripping Sam's chin, and he blinks slowly, trying to focus on the person. It's no one he's ever seen before, but Sam finds it hard to care. 'Bloody hell, I think we gave him too thorough a beating. Damned ponce.'_

_Sam coughs into the gag – he knows that should hurt, that everything should hurt, that all his body knows is pain, and since he doesn't seem to feel any of that, he wonders if he's going into shock. Long since gone into shock. He's cold and he's tired and it's hard to focus, but somehow he's still able to put two and two together. Doesn't feel like he should be able to though, that if everything else is breaking down, shouldn't his mind be shutting off as well?_

_Another stuttering breath, but there's no pain, just the sound of his own breathing and a sudden buzzing in his ears, and it's trying its damnedest to drown out everything else. The man is talking at him – he hears the words, the rise and fall of his voice, the annoyance and the condescension and the everything else – but Sam can't actually focus on what's been said, and he needs to sleep again, he really does, he needs to just be left alone._

–

'Guv?'

'Annie. Ta, love.'

She smiles – a small, weary smile, because doesn't Annie always smile, isn't hers an unquenchable cheer? He accepts the cup of tea and holds onto it like it's something that actually matters, because what _does_ still matter. Annie hovers nervously nearby, and her silence – her worries and her fears and all the things she won't just come out and say – somehow manages to speak more than any words. Still, she knows how to keep it together – and that's quite alright, the way he sees it, since he doesn't need to worry about Annie on top of everything else

A slow exhale of breath, Gene stares down at the tea, can't bring himself to drink it. 'He's right stubborn, Cartwright, but we'll find him.'

Annie's response is tight, controlled. 'That a promise, Guv?'

A sharp nod. 'As close as it gets.'

A small sigh, and Gene looks askance at her, the slight smile on her pale lips. 'That'll have to do.'

He can do it. He can. If Annie can keep it together, then so can he.

Gene looks up at the sound of Phyllis, clearing her throat. 'Guv?'

Doesn't look like she's in a particularly good mood, and he gives a weary sigh. 'What is it, Phyllis?'

Her expression is hard to read, like it often is. Not CID's errand girl though, is she, and yet here she is. 'There's a girl at the front desk, says she wants to speak with you – asked for you by name.' Phyllis gives him one of her _looks_ , and Gene nods, makes a vague gesture as takes a long drink of his tea. 'Think it could be related. To, ah, the Boss. She seemed pretty agitated, whatever it was.'

Gene nods, and maybe his luck is changing (Gene hears Sam's voice in his head, saying something about the law of averages, but it's all just wishful thinking, isn't it?). Hands off the cup to Annie, who accepts it without a word, and Gene heaves himself to his feet. 'Right. Of course. As though we should be so lucky. Have her brought to Lost and Found then, we'll have us a nice chat.'

–

_'Come on – take a drink, you daft sod.'_

_Sam blinks, hovering between conscious and not, vaguely aware of a cup being pressed to his lips, hard and cool. He coughs when he'd meant so sip, and he feels the water dripping down his chin, soaking into his shirt. There's cursing, and then there's not much more, and he's aware at some point of being moved from one room to another, because it feels like he's floating, though he can't tell why._

_And then Sam doesn't know anything at all, and there's pain, and there's pain, and there's **pain**._

–

None of this would have happened if Sam had listened to him. And it certainly wouldn't have happened if Gene had told Sam what he needed to know. It's been two days and there's no sort of proper lead – and they've turned the city upside down, as well as they've been able. Gene doesn't even remember the last time he slept. He seems to be running on whisky and coffee, and he imagines he'll have to eventually crash.

Still, there's been nothing – other than the complaint filed against him by Richard Mackey's lawyer, on account of his less than kind client's treatment at Gene's hands – but now there's this bird who acts like she has something important to say, though Gene can't even say he cares to remember her name.

It's been five minutes since she was first mentioned, and now she’s made her way into Lost and Found. The girl – big green eyes, curly dark hair, he'd been told her name but can't care to recall it – nods, clutching at her large purse like it's some sort of shield, keeping it on her lap as she sits in the chair that seems somehow too large.

Gene tells himself to focus, that he can't lose himself, that maybe this is important. It has to be, otherwise it's a bloody waste of his time, with Gene already feeling like he's ready to snap.

'Thank you for seeing me, sir.'

He nods, trying to look magnanimous – not really feeling it, though, because he wants to be _out_ there, _looking_. But he knows that without something _more_ , he could tear the city apart and by the time he finds him, Sam would have long been dead. Been doing enough of that sort of searching of late, anyhow. Gene's winding to the end of it, of knowing what to do.

Gene nods his head slightly, folds his hand one on top of the other. 'No trouble, love. You've something to tell me?'

She nods back at him, gaze flickering nervously. 'I – I've seen you around, of course. Lived here all m'life.' She looks down at her purse, having mumbled that last bit. 'And I've seen you two together, mind, you nearly ran my bloke down one day. Can't say he takes too kindly to your driving.'

'Yes, well, all in the line of duty.' He wants her to _talk_ already, but she flutters timidly, nods her head. He really doesn't have time for this. But the way he looks at it, Sam's not dead until he knows Sam's dead. 'You've something to tell me?' Urges her on once more.

She nods again, looks sideways and then right back at him – and for once, she holds his gaze. 'It was two nights ago. I'd have come sooner, but my bloke said – said it wasn't right, me putting my nose into some other's business, and where it didn't rightly belong.' She lowers her gaze at that, absently tugs on the strap of her hand bag.

He nods, but he wants to rage, it's been a long two days but maybe it's just that Gene has gone beyond his limits, because he's pretty much at a loss. Still, Gene knows raging won't help him, not now, not that it's done any good for him of late – but he doesn't need to end up scaring off this timid bird as well. 'It's brave you came here, then. Your bloke might think you’re just a busybody, but what he sees as nosiness might just save a good man's life.' Might just save _my_ Sam's life.

She smiles, bobs her head, looks away. 'I – I saw it happen, from across the street, see? Wouldn't have looked if I hadn't heard them fighting. It was just one against – three, I think, might have been four? But I'd seen him round with you, knew he was a copper, and I – I was terrified, didn't know what to do. Couldn't do anything, couldn't even look away.'

'Go on then, love?'

She nods, swallows, and she does in fact go on. 'It was a bit dark, really, can't be sure as to the number – they beat him down, hitting him, kicked him, too – and then they dragged him into the back of a van. Sped off.'

Gene's throat is going dry, but at least his voice doesn't crack as he speaks. 'That all you saw?'

She nods, looks down at her purse once more, another fidgety tug on the strap. 'Yeah.'

She's hiding something, or at least not telling it all as it is, whatever it might be. He needs to push, like Sam would, because it's Sam's life that's on the line. 'There something else? You sure there isn't more?'

The girl shakes her head – but then she nods. 'I was terrified. I must have stood there for five minutes, just looking at where they'd been – and I went over, you know? Found, uh, this...' She unzips her hand bag, looks up at him, and then she digs inside the over-large thing, Gene's heart beats overtime and lodges itself in his throat. And oh – there it is, and Gene struggles to moisten his lips.

Because it's Sam's medallion hanging from the girl's clutched hand, swinging on a broken chain. He reaches out, takes it – she lets go – and Gene blinks against the sudden burning in his eyes, the tightening in his chest, the absolute rage that sets his blood to boil. 'I'd seen him before, knew he was a copper, knew – had seen him off with you, Mr Hunt.' She'd said as much at the start of the interview, and maybe she was only repeating herself because she was nervous.

Bloody hell. Not that he didn't already know, 'cause it's been two days since anyone'd seen Sam, and sure he sometimes swans off, but never like this. But now Gene has concrete evidence in his hand, and it can't be too late, it can't, it hasn't been long enough yet, after all. He'd have been found, he'd have been left in the bloody open, waiting for some poor sod to go tripping over his body – once the damage was done, once the body was broken, once the game was ended, there would be no point in hiding him, after all.

And on one hand, he's praying that Sam hasn't gotten himself killed this time, and on the other, he's just wishing that Sam had enough sense to keep himself out of trouble in the first place. But it still feels like his own damned fault, for not having said what needed to be said, and that guilt cuts through the rage, and everything else, a proper battlefield of emotions twisting him from the inside out. 'Thank you. Anything...' He has to wet his lips – his voice cracked on that last word – and he needs to keep at it, at holding on, because he can't let himself slip and fall. Can't break himself apart, not when Sam is still in need.

And then she gives the make and model of the van, and half of its registration. She then blushes when he looks at her, and he must look utterly amazed. 'My bloke's real into cars, all sorts, he fixes them up and we see a lot of vans, and I – well, you know, I like 'em too. They drove off, there was enough light to see the back, but I only just remember the half of it. Wish I could tell you more.'

He could kiss her, but he doesn't, just laughs and grins instead. 'Thank you, Edna.' Guess he actually had paid enough attention to her name.

Still blushing, Edna grins back at him. Gene just hopes there's still time, and with one quick nod of his head, he's barking at Chris to follow him, and Ray as well, that Phyllis gets out the make and model of that van, as well as what's known of the license. And Gene? He has another appointment with Richard Mackey, all of a sudden. A very pressing one indeed, and maybe the guilt had dimmed that specific fire, but as Gene's hands clench into fists, his blood once more sets itself to burning.

–

_Sam sucks breath in as he wakes, hurts all over as he does. Maybe, his mind supplies helpfully, maybe none of this would be happening if Sam had just listened to Gene in the first place, maybe Sam really needs to start listening to him more often than not._

_'Ah, there he is,' a distant voice says, laughs. 'The man of the hour.'_

_Sam blinks his eyes open, stares ahead blankly. He's slumped sideways across some sort of low table, perhaps, not that he knows or really cares. He tries moving, and can't – apparently left hand seems to be held down, leather cord again, it seems. He breathes out as evenly as he can, doesn't hurt as much as he breathes back in. So Sam laughs softly, closes his eyes._

_'Go away.'_

_Laughter, from somewhere overhead, and then Sam is jerking back as ice cold water is dumped all over him. 'It's time to wake up, DI Tyler. It is alright if I call you Sam?'_

_'Go to hell, Mackey.'_

_'Oh.' Another laugh. 'You know who I am. You've been put through the wringer, wasn't quite sure if you even knew your own name.'_

_'You're a bastard. I thought...'_

_'It's a pity, you know. None of this would have had to happen. But that Hunt... just thinking he knew what was going on. Thinking he had to shove his nose in where it wasn't wanted.'_

_The smell of cigarette smokes wafts Sam's way – and he's only then aware of the fact that he's shivering from the cold, the fact that his clothing is soaked, and probably with more than just icy water. He feels weighed down. He tries pulling against the cord that holds him down, but he can't seem to gather momentum. He wishes he remembered why his right arm doesn't want to work, but it's a heavy, useless thing._

_He blinks, looks up – notes, for the first time, the fact that there's a lone light in the room, hanging overhead. Richard Mackey steps into the circle of the light – plaster on his nose, wearing a sharp, well-cut suit, and looking in rather good cheer. He puts his cigarette to his mouth, the filter burning orange as he takes along drag. More smoke, blown in Sam's general direction, and Sam closes his eyes and grits his teeth hard, tries not to breathe in as it washes over him. He doesn't hurt, though, when he knows he should be hurting. He's well beyond shocked at this point. He wouldn't mind just going back to sleep, not being conscious at all._

_He remembers – suddenly – a sickening crunch, his shoulder wrenched backwards and upwards and it hurt, bloody well hurt, and he'd been screaming then too, hadn't he – and there'd been laughing, more and more of it, but afterwards it had all went thankfully black. Oh – oh, yes. So that's why his arm seems dead, his shoulder had been dislocated, at the very least. Maybe it was that shock to his system that finally broke his ability to register the fact that he was in pain. A good thing, but a bad thing. A very bad thing._

_'Almost finished though, aren't we, Sam?' Sam blinks, looks up – Mackey is crouching near him, smiling. Sam opens his mouth to say something – anything would do – but then something is cutting through the chock, that inability to feel pain. Mackey is crushing his cigarette out against Sam's neck, and all Sam can do is scream._

_Oh, he must black out again, and when he comes to the first thing he hears (beyond the loud, constant buzzing that seems to have taken up residence in his ears) is his own rapid, shallow breathing. The pain in his neck is burning. Everything is alive again. He whimpers, tries to make himself sit up – but he can't – and he feels himself falling apart. Breaking. He's in the middle of some sick game and he knows he's not winning. Can't possibly win._

_He blinks – hesitates, swallows – and tries to shift his head, manages to look upwards. He's alone again, he thinks, in the little room with the one hanging light. He's cold – it's very cold – and he shivers, his sodden clothing pressing him down. But someone is standing in the corner after all, perhaps made of shadows, and terror creeps down Sam's spine, that same sort of ice that had shocked him awake._

_He is awake now, though. The adrenaline makes him focus. Makes him know what's going on._

_Still can't move. Still on his knees, still tethered down, and still having his self stripped away, piece by bloody piece._

_'Typically I wouldn't dirty myself with this,' he hears a voice, swimming somewhere to his left – and he forces himself to look at that voice, at the man that's sitting across from him, across the space of the little table. 'But you're a special case, Sam. When Hunt finds you, I really want him to understand.'_

_'Understand what?' Sam grits out. He tries to move his hand. Wiggle his fingers. Do anything other than shiver, feel damp and sore and cold. He wonders what happened to his jacket, remembers having been wearing it at one point, sees the sleeve of his shirt is dark and wet in patches of what looks like old blood. Finally looks at the leather band that's secured his wrist. Can't even rock the table, as it seems to be bolted down._

_Mackey hasn't answered him. He takes out another cigarette instead, lights it – inhales – and Sam feels the panic building, but he can't let it be known. 'Understand what?' he asks again._

_Mackey laughs. 'Oh, you'll see.'_

_'Why... why haven't you just killed me yet?'_

_'Ah, Sam. Patience. All good things in their time.'_

_Sam blinks. Leans his head forward. Then he starts laughing, because he's about due for a hysteric break. He wants Gene. He needs Gene. Or maybe he just needs to die, whichever thing decides to happen first. 'Poor boy,' he hears Mackey say, and then he's turning his head to glare at him. He's laughed too hard, and now Sam's just trying to catch his breath. 'You'll get to rest soon, Sam. I promise.'_

_'Go fuck yourself,' he hisses, shivers, lolls his head forward and leans it against the hard edge of the cold metal table. A wave of dizziness washes over him, and with it, his sense of balance pitches like a boat caught in a storm. How long has it been? Where is Gene?_

_The smell of smoke – and that reminds Sam, he needs to be scared – but whatever Mackey might do to him, he thinks he's well prepared. So when he pushes the lit cigarette against Sam's hand, when he feels the burn of it, the scream tearing itself from his throat, the faint sizzle of flesh, it's just as bad as he'd thought it would be. But at least he'd been prepared._

_As though that matters, as the cigarette is rubbed out against his flesh. His vision wobbles, and darkness skitters round the edges. Sam's breath hitches, and then he's sobbing – or he would have been, if he'd been capable of the sound. They wrack his body, quietly overtaking him, the tears burning in his eyes, the force of it tightening his throat._

_How long has it been... how long?_

_Nothing seems to happen, after that, not for a long time – there's been so much put upon him, he knows that Mackey has to be careful, or else Sam will go unconscious and maybe not wake again. Sam feels like he's at a breaking point, going between darkness and waking once more, still sobbing, more and more weakly. The pain of the burns dull, because by the time Mackey grips his hand and forcefully breaks his little finger, nothing else quite compares._

_It doesn't stop. One by one, they snap – sometimes, Sam whimpers, his eyes roll back, and he falls back into the darkness of being unconscious, the line between that and waking shadow too fine a line, but one that is incredibly easy to tread. Then, when he's awake again, he hears Mackey's voice, asking if he's ready to go on._

_He hasn't screamed yet – he doesn’t even know if he can. He doesn't seem to be able to do anything actually, just leaning his cheek against the table, staring across the void between him and Mackey, watching the broken angles of his fingers, laughing or whimpering or sobbing from time to time, listening to the broken hitch of his breath. Well, he wanted Gene to prove it to him – and, in a way, he has. Mackey's more than just involved, and that's all Sam wanted to know, actual evidence to back up Gene's hunch. But what that means, what that boils down to, is: Gene wins, Gene wins. Undo this, stop it, please make it stop, **Gene wins**._

_Sam sobs in his face._

_Mackey breaks his forefinger next._

_Sam screams –_

_Sam loses track of anything, of everything, actually, after that, tears tracking his face and he's too bloody broken to care. He can't think, can't speak, staring at the space where Richard Mackey had once sat._

_Gone off, though, promised Sam he'd return – not quite finished with him, after all. Breaking a body is hard work, and Mackey had said he needed a drink._


	3. Chapter 3

It takes too bloody long to find him, and it's night again by the time Gene's managed to track Mackey down. He's not taking up room at one of his common pubs, a wrench thrown into the workings that helped to delay Gene by hours, precious time that's slipping right on by. It's most certainly not the pub where Gene first spotted the bastard, what led to this whole sodding mess. Mackey looks up at him – sitting in the back of the room, back in the shadows, right at home in them – and he's grinning like he hasn't a care at all. In such good cheer, no worries in the world, like maybe he's been up to something particularly awful, and it's the sort of look that Gene wouldn't mind smashing right in.

Wouldn’t mind that all, but where exactly would that get him?

'To what do I owe this honour, DCI Hunt? I'd ring for the police, but apparently they're already here.' He wheezes a bit as he breathes, his dark eyes flickering, but he doesn't seem nervous at all. In fact, if anything, he seems too damned smug, and Gene grits his teeth and feels his right hand curl itself into a fist. Mackey grins slightly, reaches for his drink, sips at it, sets the glass back down.

Gene's not alone. He wanted to, but he knew that was problematic (Sam wouldn't want him to smash Mackey's face in, he might just blow the case to bits, this has to be done _right_ ), so Gene brought two plod with him, otherwise useless though they might be. They're flagging him like a little entourage at this point, but Mackey doesn't even seen put off by that, or Gene's extended silence, or even the plaster covering Mackey's broken nose, the reminder of their last meeting.

So, forcing himself to not just pummel Mackey into oblivion, Gene makes himself him down, smiles a little. Needs to put him at ease, because that'll help rattle him best. 'You look bloody ridiculous with that thing on your face.' Gene clenches and unclenches his fist. All he really wants to do is hit Mackey some more.

Mackey gives a little chuckle, seems genuinely amused. More than just at ease. 'Figures you'd have said that. Seeing as I've you to thank for it being there at all.'

Gene huffs as he laughs right back at him, only he's not happy at all. Maybe Mackey has no idea just how hard it is right now for Gene to not just beat him into bloody submission. Or, if he's a smart bloke, maybe Mackey does. Must be clever enough, he's lasted this long. Could just be that his luck is running thin. 'I need you to tell me where my DI is, Mackey.'

'Don't know what you're going on about, Hunt.' Mackey raises an eyebrow at him, still amused, grabs for his glass again, downs more of his drink. 'But then, you've never really been good with your words. Fist first sort of man, that's Gene Hunt.'

Doesn't even know the half of it, does he? Gene flexes his fingers, curls them back into a fist. 'Need to have a word, just the two of us. And you need to listen to every little thing I have to say to you.'

Mackey blinks, doesn't look even somewhat startled. He leans back in his chair, grins wide, relaxes, tilts his glass to one side – stares down at the dark liquid inside – before setting it to the side. 'What exactly do you want from me, Hunt? I don't know where your DI is, just sorry the poor sod's gone missing. That really is rather terrible. I, however, have had absolutely nothing to do with it. Don't know where the bloke is.'

'Haven't we done enough pussyfooting around?'

Gene could do a lot of things. He could hit the bastard, he could pull a gun on him, he could drag him out the building to the alleyway beside the pub, and beat him into bloody oblivion, and do it with a crowd of onlookers cheering him on.

('You wouldn't,' Mackey might say. 'You're not that sort of man.'

Only Mackey doesn't know Gene as well as he thinks he might, because he would do any number of things to make sure that Sam comes out of this alive.

Like not break the man's face apart, and that's more important than Mackey could ever tell.)

'Hunt – '

'Let's keep this reasonable. We have a witness, Mackey, one who can place one of your vehicles at the scene of Sam's abduction. You only have so many vans, isn't that right? We'll search them all if we have to. Can't have been that thorough – sure something slipped by you, something that will place him in one of those same vans.'

Mackey opens his mouth, closes it, frowns.

'Now, unless you want this to get messy – and it will get messy, at least for you and your business. Imagine all that trade you'll lose, because your properties suddenly become a part of an ongoing investigation.' At the end of that, flashing his teeth, he smiles. 'You'll lose a lot of money that way, won't you?'

'You're not going to intimidate me. Whatever you're aiming to do, it isn't going to work.'

He stands up, and Gene puts his hand out, clamps it down on Mackey's shoulder, and pushes the man back down into his seat. 'So we have evidence. We have motive, and it's more than just your bloody vendetta against the good police of this city. We have plenty of time, and intent, and maybe you're not the one who grabbed him yourself, but we know you're the one behind it. Don't do the dirty work yourself, do you, Mackey?'

Mackey straightens his tie, tugs at his cuffs, fingers shifting nervously. There's one dark fleck there that stands out, tells Gene to notice it, and Gene does, grabbing Mackey's hand and yanking his arm over. 'That blood?'

Mackey flinches. 'Must have cut myself shaving.'

Gene eyes his face, the five o'clock shadow, the lack of any nicks or scrapes. 'Heal fast, I suppose.' He lets Mackey go, but that little detail has been filed away for safekeeping (Sam would be overbearingly proud of that – emphasis on overbearing – he really would). 'Right.' Gene grins, crosses his arms over his chest, tilts his head to one side. 'Now, you tell me where my DI is, and I don't have you dragged out of this pub and beaten to within an inch of your life.'

'You wouldn't – '

'Or maybe I'll just shoot you, less fuss hat way, far less mess.'

Mackey's falling back into his defence, the repetition. 'You wouldn't.'

(Gene hears Sam's voice in his head, because at this point it's all he has left of him, you can't just do it that way, Gene, you have to keep on fighting, have to make sure you get something that sticks. Sam's body, dead and cold, would certainly let Gene get away with anything he'd like to, at this point, but he can't let himself think that, now can he? _No_ , he just can't.

Just intimidation tactics, Sammy-boy – I know what I'm doing.)

'Don't know what I'm capable of.' Gene almost laughs. 'But then again, maybe you're right – I could rough you up again but that didn't exactly work out the first time, did it? I know you know where Sam is. Already seen you get away with killing a copper once before, Mackey, and I promise you, you won't be getting away with it again.'

Mackey shakes his head once more, and he trembles – Gene's never actually seen him afraid, and it's a petty thing and it cuts deep, but it makes him feel good. 'You must be mistaken,' is all Mackey says.

'I'm bloody well not mistaken, Mackey. Now let me repeat myself once more – where. Is. My. DI?'

Mackey swallows, his eyes flicker anxiously – not straying too far from Gene's face. 'I don't know what – '

Gene flashes another smile, all hard teeth. 'Do I have to start repeating myself? We've traced the vehicle they carted him off in, Mackey. We know it's one of yours.'

But Mackey – looking like he may have been caught – doesn't say anything at all.

'Look. They mean to kill him. Stop it, or I kill you.'

'You'd go to prison for that, Hunt – '

'Don't think a jury would convict me for ridding the world of an awful man such as yourself. Cop killer. Right bastard. Don't even kill them off quick, do you? Want them to suffer, each moment of the way.' Gene sucks in his breath, sneering. 'How long? Bloody hell, Mackey, _how long_?'

Mackey's eyes have glazed over, and his breathing is low, panicked, and this is all very good. Push a little harder, tip him right over the edge. 'J-just remembered you being so smart mouthed as a young copper and thought this might jog your memory, remind you who your betters are!'

It'd be easy – too bloody easy – to smash Mackey's face into the table, to pummel the bastard into the ground, to kick him until he's a crumpled mess, one breath away from exiting this world. That would do Sam no good, though, and seeing as Mackey's finally talking – admitting to his involvement – Gene has to keep on with what's actually proven to work. Intimidation goes a long way.

How had Sam put it? Ah yes, dazzle him with the old Hunt charm. Well, Gene's got a few tricks up his sleeve that Sam's less than aware of.

'Right then, now that you're feeling more agreeable.' Gene yanks Mackey up out of his chair, the plod watching on impassively, Mackey scrabbling at Gene's hands to get him to let go, 'where _is_ he?' Not, where are they dumping his body? 'Mackey!'

More panicked breathing, wheezing, eyes gone wide, gaze skittering about. 'Deansgate! The old warehouse! That's all I bloody know! Just wanted to teach you a lesson, is all! Rotten bastard – '

Gene could lose it. He doesn't, and that's just that. He shoves Mackey back into his chair, watches the man stumble, grab for the arms of it to keep himself from falling right onto the ground. 'Cuff him. Read him his rights. Make sure he has an extra comfortable cell.'

And he turns, leaves the plod to do that dirty work, because Mackey might be the bastard behind this, but finding Sam while there's still time is far more important than beating the bastard down. Maybe the latter would be more satisfying, but it's better to do this right.

 _Sam_ –

Then he's at the Cortina, and he's talking into the phone. '870 to Alpha One, I need an ambulance at Deansgate, and back up, yeah, some of that as well.'

'Alpha One to 870 – is it the Boss?'

Yes. Yes it is. 'Could be,' is what he says when his mind is spinning, when he feels sick, and maybe he might just be hopeful, too. But hope is a half-forgotten thing, and Gene can't be sure. 'We need to be prepared for the worst here, Phyllis, I... 870 out.'

And isn't that the truth of it. He needs to not let it get out of hand. He needs to focus and he needs to _drive_. So Gene guns the engine, and the tyres squeal.

–

_He's dreaming – at least, Sam thinks he's dreaming, because he's dead certain that whatever he's feeling, he's not actually awake (and he doesn't think he's actually dead). It's that odd and very detached sensation of watching yourself as though you're standing outside your body, a very real sense of the surreal, how it's all too dark, like the overhead light could never possibly be enough. Still, Sam remembers the grit beneath his boots – the sound of the van coming to an abrupt stop, the squeal of its tyres – the first man who grabbed for him, and the fight that followed after._

_Still, first things first._

_'What's the problem then, mate?' Sam was staring down at the hand that had grabbed him, priming himself to react, to not make the first move but to roll with whatever was still to come. Knowing that it was well on its way._

_There were four of them and only one of him, and he took two out before they landed a punch to the kidney, and after that he was going down hard, winded and wheezing. Trying to bring himself back upright, he felt a hand grabbing at the chain around his neck, felt it snap and then a heavy fisted blow to the head followed. He really was down then, knowing he needed to move, but he felt overwhelmed by too much pain, too much sensation, and he needed to catch his breath. That was, of course, when the kicking began, and Sam grunted in pain and simply collapsed, tried to ball around himself to protect his torso as best as he could. He knows he didn't cry out, but it didn't stop – well, not until it did, and he was in such pain at that time, he couldn't even think._

_Why is it too much of an effort, just making himself breathe?_

_He swims back into consciousness, they're talking about how he's in such rough shape now, and the voices are angry, properly so, because – because, what? Sam doesn't know – and he can't actually focus on anything after that, because it blurs and collapses in on itself, and his consciousness begins to fade, Sam's being sucked back down._

_Still, his head rises above it all, and he blinks into shadow and shifting light. 'How does it feel, DI Tyler? All your DCI had to do was play along, but he didn't even care enough to do that.'_

_Gene..._

_'Think it's just about time we put you in the ground.'_

_Then, Sam can make words once more, though it takes all of his strength. 'Piss... piss off.' Then he swallows, his throat is dry and burning, and he wants to cough once more, but he grits his teeth together and fights back against that agonising urge. He **knows** Gene cares. Not his fault, not Gene's fault at all, it's all because of Sam._

_Deeper shadow then, again, and Sam slips down into it. Voices float overhead, but he's drowning and maybe there's no coming back from it. Maybe the fight goes from him. Maybe he's too torn and broken and tired to even worry if he should care._

_Coughing. Weak coughing, but it's all he can even manage. Blood and bad dreams seem to choke him. Deeper. Deeper, more and more. Shadows, sucking at him and clinging to him and pulling him down.._

_Gene._

_So by the time he hears it, the shout of a voice that's so familiar it makes him ache – more shouting, indistinct – it's too late, because there's no amount fighting that will keep him from slipping away, down completely, and into the dark._

–

It's been three days and more since Gene last saw Sam, and it wasn't until the last fifteen minutes that he honestly found himself preparing himself for what he mind end up finding. He'd known that, whatever he did end up finding, it wouldn't be anything nice to look at. Nothing Mackey touched ended up looking very nice.

Because truth be told, he tries hard not to think about what Richard Mackey can do, because he's seen it first hand – but once it starts, he can't stop himself, and the memories flood him like something old and bitter, seeping into all the cracks of his mind. He was there when they found DI Brown, slack-jawed with shock, saw the rage and horror on his DCI's face because of what his man had been reduced to – a broken, bloody mess. Time had been taken with him, a proper sort of slow torture, and the smell of blood and sweat and _dead_ sat so heavily in Gene's nose, he'd wanted to be sick.

Couldn't get that stink out of his nose for weeks.

All he wanted, after that, was to make Mackey pay for what he'd done, for killing one of his own and in such a gruesome way. Maybe he wasn't the one who'd broken Brown's face, or the bones, because it wasn't like Mackey did any of his dirty work himself. But the way Gene saw him, that rotten bastard who had no place in _Gene's_ city, each wound had been personally inflicted, slow and deliberate, and it was Mackey's own hands that were covered in that blood. Finished him off with a bullet to the brains, and –

Couldn't get their hands on anything, after that, not Mackey (because the evidence really had been circumstantial, and that only at best, such a slimy bastard, a rotten, twisted man, young enough at that point, and he's only grown worse with time), or any of his men, because he was right clever and, like a cancer, he knew how to hide.

So Gene has to prepare himself. He might not like what he finds. No, no matter what he finds, he won't like it. But at least Sam might still be alive.

Time slows as the tyres squeal and he stops the Cortina, shuts it down. He needs to get up right away. Backup is prompt – he's not going in alone – but as he pulls himself out of his car, he still checks his gun. Barks orders, his own voice distorted by the dull throbbing rush of his own blood, swallowed by the hard beating of his heart. He watches the men and woman of his team split, searching. This needs to be thorough. Quick.

Where's that damned ambulance, though?

Then time snaps back into motion, he can't just stand there, he needs to act, and then Gene's rushing in as well, into the empty cold of the old warehouse, gun in hand. There's too many rooms, too many places to hide, too much darkness, too many places that Sam might be, and too much silence to drown in.

Not even the fifth room he enters, he searches the wall for a light switch, turns it on – just a weak cone of light from overhead, and there he is, and there is Sam. (How very easy-peasy, really.) He's nothing but a heap on the dirty floor, slumped forward and motionless, and Gene feels time slow down again, and he opens his mouth to say something. Anything. Feels someone push past him, and it's Annie, the gasp of her breath, hurrying into the room.

He watches Sam more than he watches Annie, though he knows she's checking his pulse, not moving him but kneeling by him instead. Then Gene blinks, feels a tightness in his throat, a dizziness in his head, and Annie's looking at him, her mouth is working but he doesn't hear the words.

' – alive! He's still alive, Guv!'

Gene blinks once more, and it all comes rushing back, and he's down on his knees at Sam's side, reaching out with one arm. Still not prepared for this, couldn't possibly be prepared for this, the smell of blood and sweat, stale cigarette smoke and something else he can't place, something old, charred. But then his hand touches Sam's arm, the dampness of his shirt, and his fingers curl around it. Sam is there. Sam is real. He's cold and Annie says he's alive, though he doesn't even seem to be breathing.

'Sam.'

Annie's saying something else – something else that Gene can't hear, though he's sure he should care – and Gene doesn't want to see this, not any of it, but Sam's alive, and it needs to be seen.

'Sam...'

Rage and sorrow twist inside him, at the bruises and the cuts, the blood on Sam's face and the arm he cradles beneath him, the left hand with its bruised and broken fingers, all pale but dark as well, and distorted. Oh, but this seals Mackey's fate, it really does. As it is, all Gene knows is he'll make sure that man rots in gaol and then burns in hell. Once this more important thing has been dealt with, first.

He's trying to take it all in – to hold Sam against him, no matter the blood and everything else, calling for those medics already and Sam's too cold, why is he so cold? It goes slow again, the moment and the in betweens, and Gene's looking all over except at Sam's face, but he looks there next when he hears the hitch of Sam's breath. Not breathing, is he? Wait, no. He is, it's just that faint.

'Gene,' Sam says, the one thing he manages, and then he smiles, such an achingly beautiful thing, and then his eyes roll back into his head. Dead limp in Gene's arms, blood slipping down his chin, he really doesn't even seem to be breathing now, he's gone that still.

Dull shock creeps over Gene's mind, and maybe he's shouting, telling Sam he can't die, not now, you bastard, _not now_. He lays him down and shrugs out of coat, wraps him in it, and then Gene's hoisting Sam into his arms. Dead limp before, and now just dead weight, and he'll carry him out of this place. Sees the shock on Annie's face, on Ray's, Chris as well, as he carries Sam _out_ , shouting at them to just get out of the bloody way.

But Annie follows after him, where is that bloody ambulance already, and Gene's legs want to give out. Annie's hand is on his arm as he struggles to stand, but then he has to put Sam down, though it's the last thing he'd want. Looks down at Sam once more, he's so still and he's so pale, too pale, really, like he's fading away completely. Hears Annie at his side, though he has no idea what she's saying.

Wait. Focus – _focus_. 'He's not breathing, Guv – his heart...' She pulls her hand away from him. Well after all he's been through, it's a right miracle he's the right side of alive. Stay alive through all that, the bastard, and then slip away right at the end. It isn't right, it isn't fair. Because right now, he isn't even that.

And right now, Sam... Isn't. Even. That.

All he can do is gape as Annie tilts Sam's head back, breathes into his mouth, into his lungs, slapping one hand down against his chest. Stops long enough, ' _help me_ ,' and then she's at it again, breathing, and Gene knows this, remembers this, and Sam had thought the training that sodding important. Maybe sometimes Gene still just did things to make Sam stop nagging at him, bothersome gob and all, but maybe – maybe...

It would be, then, that damned important, as Annie pulls back and then Gene's starting the chest compressions, coming to him without even truly remembering what he should do, steady, steady, steady, one, two, three. Because Gene's not losing Sam now, not like this. Especially not like this. Not when Sam's been fighting. He's not going to let this be the end.

Sirens, finally. The ambulance, bloody finally, as Sam shudders and gives a long, wheezing breath, followed with a whimper of pain. One more breath. Until those scant weak things turn into proper breathing, low and laboured. But they're there. Sam's still alive.

Until the medics are there with the stretcher, and Sam is being carried away.

He almost laughs, can't tell up from down, his chest aching and his fingers clenched so tightly, he feels them going numb. There's a wet trickle on his face and Gene rubs at it absently, only afterwards noticing it's tears tracking down.

Gene takes a deep breath, looks at Annie, sees her mouth opening and closing, doesn't hear her anymore. He turns away, stares down at the ground, what's been left behind. His coat, Sam's blood on it, a thing cast aside.

–

_He remembers walking hand in hand with his mother. He remembers the sights and sounds of morning in Blackpool. He remembers he needs to scream but when they'd worried he might end up biting off his own tongue, or maybe it was because he'd spit blood in that one bastard's face, they'd had to gag him again._

_He remembers – somewhere after but before – being grabbed and being punched and fighting back because he had to, even being outnumbered. He remembers being kicked down into submission, into unconsciousness. And waking, afterwards, he couldn't even get a word in edgewise, not that he even really tried. He remembers the pain in his side, the pain all over, a constant reminder that he was still alive. He remembers thinking he was awake, or maybe he was dreaming, or maybe he was dead. He remembers when he couldn't feel the pain, when that should have worried him, because if he wasn't feeling it, didn't that mean he was dead? He doesn't remember much else, but he thinks he should be able to._

_He'd been screaming – but they hadn't minded the fact that he was screaming – and he'd been gagged again, but he couldn't remember why._

_Wait, no, wait – he remembers that, too. He was staring across the table, at the hard angles of his swollen, broken fingers, pale but darkly bruised, feeling hot and cold and numb, and all at the same time. He'd studied them like they'd been something unreal, something that couldn't possibly exist. Then, swimming in and out of consciousness – he'd done a lot of that, as each bone had been snapped in turn – and when his forefinger had suffered the same fate he _had_ bit down on his tongue, had tasted his own blood, but then he'd also screamed. **That** was when they had to gag Sam, because he'd laughed and sobbed hysterically, and his mouth was filling with blood, so he spit it into the man's face._

_They. No, **he**. It was Richard Mackey in that room, wasn't it? Mackey, who he'd thought innocent, who..._

_Sam feels himself sinks upwards into proper consciousness, a strange enough sensation, breathing sharply, nostrils flaring. Can't seem to breathe enough, too shallow, and his lungs are starting to ache. And he's tired, so damned tired. Shouldn't he be dead?_

_Because he somehow remembers being dead._

_Why isn't he dead?_

_Wouldn't just let him, and why not?_

_And –_

–

Gene doesn't like waiting, because sometimes you need to know a thing and you need to know it right away – like Sam, on an operating, between himself and the doctors, the fight to keep him alive. Gene had to wait through that, and the silence that stretched on after it, and he didn't like it one bit. Just one little thing, one little word. Gene's not asking for too much.

Really though, he's asking for everything.

Could leave the hospital, but Gene won't – he sat in the back of the ambulance when Sam was driven in, held Sam's good hand, stared down at his still, bloody, bruised face, breathed in each time Sam did, and then out as well. Tired. So tired. Can't sleep though, not yet, not till they tell him that Sam's good, he's alright, he's going to live –

– the bastard better live, Gene's not given him permission to die, and now that he's thought that, it's not that he ever will –

Only then, Gene's not sitting at Sam's bedside anymore, he's remembered his way back to the ambulance ride instead, the small, hot, cramped space, the entire thing bumping as it hit a pothole, and Gene should have cursed.

Only he squeezes Sam's fingers tightly instead, feels the ripple of emotion as it crosses his face, and he doesn't care at all what the ambulance attendant might think, only knowing the man better keep to his own bloody business. Sam's lashes flutter, cracking open, a flash of his eyes, only then they're closed again, Sam's face struggling, groaning in pain. Like he's trapped in some sort of nightmare, trapped inside his head, and all Gene wants at that point is to make it all better – not a small want, that – only it's something that's still possible, seeing as undoing the entire mess is not. Sam, beaten and broken, barely breathing, strapped to a gurney and Gene's heart is breaking inside, broken too much, and it already feels like he's wrenching Sam's arm, just to keep hold of his hand.

Somehow, though, they make it to the hospital, and Gene's too broken down to even raise the slightest fuss at the doctors, as Sam's rushed off – what he does is tell him to do what they can, to save him, because it's all he can, and maybe it's all he has left.

'Guv?'

Gene blinks, looks up, feels the exhaustion sinking into, threatening to pull him down. It's Chris, shifting restlessly from foot to foot, worry weighing down his brow, holding a cup in his hands. Without a word, Chris passes it over, looks like he means to say something, only he keeps his mouth shut as Gene tugs the cup from his hands, goes about downing the tea.

'Annie thought... didn't think you should be here alone...' Chris blinks, turns his head away, looks down the hall as he rubs his hand together. 'Don't suppose you've heard about the Boss...?'

Gene closes his eyes, feels too worn down to speak, clinging to the hot mug and taking another long drink of it, even as it burns on the way down. Chris gives a little sigh, the click of his shoes as he starts moving away, and Gene thinks he might just have a bit of peace and quiet – not so much of it to find inside a bloody hospital of all places, a big enough surprise – only then Chris doesn't actually leave, he's nervously pacing back and forth instead, shoulders stooped and his arms folded across his chest.

Bloody hell, if Gene had just said something to Sam – _anything_ – not let his own stubborn nature get in the way, then maybe Sam... maybe Sam.... maybe Sam wouldn't be fighting to live, wouldn't have had to struggle to survive. It's Gene's fault this happened.

'Should have trusted him...' And it's true, he does trust Sam, so why couldn't he have trusted him with this? Something that might have kept him from harm, something that might still save his life?

'Guv?'

'Annie, I – '

'You look like hell.' She sits beside him, takes his empty cup, sets it down on another one of the hard plastic chairs. He doesn't try to hold onto it, feels it slipping numbly from his fingers. 'Look, I'll sit here a while – keep an eye on things, okay? You need to get home, have yourself a shower, a change of clothes, maybe get something to eat – '

'No, Christ, no, I need to be here – if he – if he...'

'What good would that do you, Guv? Either of you?'

Maybe he's not fighting it because he's too tired, and because of that, he sees her reasoning. 'Gene, I...' Gene blinks, looks up, stares her in the face. It's a rare enough thing, his lone WDC calling him by his first name. 'I know what he means to you, and I know what you mean to him. Got a set of eyes in me head, you know?' She grins, but it's tired, somewhat sad. Her hand, all of a sudden, is resting on his arm. 'Wouldn't want to see you like this, Guv, tearing yourself up over something you have no control over – '

Only he did have some control, if he hadn't been so obstinate, kept the details from Sam, the little things that mattered the most – 

'So go home for a bit, okay? Won't even ask you to try and get some rest. Just – freshen up a bit, alright? Sam's going to be okay, Guv, he'll be waiting for you.'

Gene's response is tight, controlled, and they've played this moment before. 'That a promise, Cartwright?'

Annie gives a sharp nod in return, only it's her smile that softens the blow. 'As close as it gets.'

Her hand slips to his, fingers threading closely, and she gives his hand a soft squeeze, one that holds bolder. Something sparks in her eyes, something that makes him want to give in to the rage that's buried deep down, because he hasn't shouted since he'd gotten here, maybe because he's properly exhausted, maybe because he just can't find the breath. Now, when Sam's on an operating table right at this very moment, because his body's too weak, too hurt, when he still might die.

Only then he remembers it, decides to hold onto Annie's words, presses her fingers in return, maybe too hard. If it is, she grins and bears it. 'Just gonna pop off for a bit then,' he mutters, and Annie nods at him, and he releases her hand, feels her fingers sliding away from his.

Still, it hardly feels like it's real, getting up to leave – glancing once more at Annie, the small smile that's sitting on her lips. He nods at her, and she nods back, and Chris gapes at him as he turns to leave. 'Don't worry yourself, Chris – say, how about we have ourselves a nice cuppa?'

He sees Chris blinking at him, still looks amazed for Gene to be up and leaving, but then he blushes faintly and rubs the back of his neck. 'S-sure, Annie,' he says, before turning to go fetch that tea immediately, and Gene rolls his eyes, hears Annie gives a small laugh. Puts them both behind him, shoving his hands down deep into his pockets. Carries himself away.

The drive home, the lines of the city blurring into one extended mess of colour, rust and blood and dark cold grey, and somehow Gene manages to drive himself to his house, park outside, turn off the engine, sit in the quiet and the dark. Day ended at some point, a full moon rising in the sky, and Gene brings a hand up, rubs at his forehead. Falling apart. Yanks the key out, forces the door open, stomps up the front path. Doesn't think how his wife left him at one point, and then somehow Sam stepped in to fill that gap, but it wasn't like Sam was taking her place. Especially at that point, it's not like Sam had taken up the empty spot in Gene's bed. Of course, for years now, neither had she.

Slamming the door behind him, Gene stumbles, has to catch himself on the front table, exhaustion running through him, making him shake. He put his coat back on at one point, but now he's pulling it off, fast as he can, throws it over the table, watches it slipping away. He needs to do something, he needs to care. It ends up a pool of fabric on the ground, and Gene's trembling as he bends over, yanks it back up, and it's almost too much effort to hang the thing up.

Never meant to get this close to Sam, to want him in his life, but too much happened and it wasn't like Gene could simply undo who Sam was, what effects he had on Gene's life. Not just the professional one, either, and that had – for too many long years, when he and his wife had grown to be strangers – been the most important thing in his life.

Now, imagining a life without Sam –

 _Don't think that, Guv_ , Sam's voice, mad as ever. _Always said I was too belligerent to properly break._

Gene feels the laugh wrench itself up out of him, and he staggers his way up the stairs, tugging his tie off as he does. 'Never told you that, Sammy-boy,' and now he's gone and started talking to the voices in his head, so he must be just as loony as Sam. 'Always kept that to meself.'

No answer, not that he thought his insanity would be so forthcoming – enters his bedroom, sometimes it ought to be his and Sam's as well, and he strips himself down, kicking his loafers off as well. Trembles once more, too bloody tired – cold, as well, wonders if he should flip the radiator on, only he's not planning on being here that long now, is he? So he carries himself into the bathroom, the one off the master bedroom, the one with the better shower, the bigger bath. Runs the water, lets it burn. Wants to wash it all away, starting with the exhaustion, the filth.

The water does its job, that and the soap, and he lathers his body, washes and rinses his hair as well. Cleans his teeth afterwards, a towel wrapped about his midsection, damp hair sticking up at odd angles. Sam'd fuss at him for not taking care of himself, but he's been bloody preoccupied – just this once, Sam would have to understand.

Almost like he's falling into a more typical day, where he'll stride out the bedroom, head downstairs, and Sam will have breakfast on, because he likes the attention Gene lavishes upon him when he cooks up a proper meal. Doesn't think the man would make a good wife, but he does like having him about. Might just keep him round forever, if Sam was feeling so agreeable – and he probably would be. Funny thing is, that had been there from the start of it – when Sam was down on his knees in his flat that night, fetching a bottle of scotch from the back of the cupboard, when he'd wondered if Gene was making an offer in regards to giving Sam not just a better bed, but a permanent place to stay.

So, it seems more than just funny that it never had happened, that they both seemed so fixed in their spots, as though they could only overlap into the other's world, neither ready to go the full way. More than just knew what his DI was up to in bed these days, after all, seeing as Gene was the one Sam was getting up to it with.

Maybe he does need to make that offer. And because of that, somehow – because he couldn't take it any other way – Gene knows that more than just surviving, Sam will live, and he'll be the one who'll help Sam heal.

Dressing, he straightens his hair, still somewhat damp, but Gene doesn't mind. Takes the stairs down, heads into the kitchen, knows he's hungry but doesn't think he really has the stomach to try and keep something down. Sam's presence even extends to Gene's fridge – the way that Sam keeps things in his that only Gene will eat – because there's three of his poncy yoghurts sitting on the top shelf, two of which Gene snatches up and eats. They're not too bad, but they're not a habit he plans on making, that or keeping, so he chucks the empty containers into a bin, digs a flask out, feels the burn of that slug of whisky going down. He winces, the flavours mixing together. Right, not the very best combination, that.

And like that, just like that, he leaves the kitchen, shutting off lights as he goes, leaves his coat behind, picks up his keys, and heads on out. He's through the door, stepping out into the cool night air, and he almost feels human, mostly feels alive. He's been gone less than an hour, he's sure, and he's back at the hospital in seven minutes flat.

Annie's still there, Chris as well, only he's not pacing now, hunched down in one of the small, hard seats instead, arms folded over his chest like they'd gotten themselves stuck, head lolling forward as he drools a bit, snores.

'Bloody Nora,' Gene groans. 'Cartwright, should have sent the boy home.'

Annie shakes her head, glances sideways at Chris. 'Told him he should, said he didn't want to go. Not till he finds out about Sam.'

That touches Gene, warms his heart, because it reminds him that, no matter what, Sam's a part of the team, despite those times he's been at odds with them (the ways he's sometimes at odds with Gene). Sometimes he doesn't say the right thing, does he, Sam? Sometimes he's a right narrow-minded bastard, wanting his own way, mostly wanting things to be done the right way. Maybe that's not so bad, though. At least, maybe it's not always so bad.

The night wears on, Annie passing him cups of tea, or Chris when he's awake, but eventually it's dawn and Gene's asleep – a bloody restless slumber that is, doesn't even last. He wakes with a start, Chris' heel clicking, sound distorted by dreaming, made Gene think of Sam. Chris is up and pacing again, dark circles round his eyes. Gene groans, leans his head back. Annie's nowhere to be seen.

'Chris, go home – get some bloody kip.'

Chris stops, wrings his hands together, shakes his head. 'No can do, Guv – I....'

Only Gene nods, because he understands. 'Right. I know. Where's Cartwright off to, then?'

'Said she needed to ring the station – told her she ought to think about getting some kip.'

'Some ruddy hypocrite you make,' Gene laughs. 'She's not going anywhere, don't even think I could get her to budge.' Chris nods, looks uncertain – and then he's back to pacing. Gene ought to ring up the station as well, just to make sure the building is still in one piece. That Ray and Phyllis haven't torn the place down.

'Oh, good morning, Guv,' Annie says, heading back. She eases back into her seat, pats his hand, smiles. 'Feeling a bit more rested?'

'Not bloody likely,' he mutters. He's tired. He's properly drained. Shouldn't they know how Sam is, by now?

It seems funny, almost, that thinking that, a doctor comes walking towards them. 'I'm told you're waiting on Sam Tyler?'

He hears Annie, at his side, 'yes,' she says, looking at the man, wanting to scowl. Can't even gather the strength for that, though he can force himself to his feet.

The doctor nods, looks down at his clipboard. 'He's well – well, he made it through surgery. He's stable, but he's still critical – you can see him, if you'd like, but he's not awake. Likely won't be for a while. He sustained a massive amount of of damage, and a good lot is going to be long-lasting – there will be emotional scarring as well.' And Gene doesn't know what to say in response. But it makes sense, of course it does, and as the doctor drones on, Gene can't help himself from interrupting him. Just can't.

'He's strong, Sam is. Whatever's been done to him, he'll recover.'

The way the doctor looks at him makes Gene want to punch him, bastard doesn't understand Sam the way he does, nobody does – well, maybe Annie might, but nobody else. But he's tired, and he doesn't remember the last time he had a full night's slept. A bit of kip here and there, well, that hardly counts. Couldn't, not with Sam undiscovered.

But Gene doesn't know the half of it, does he? He listens as the doctor goes over Sam's injuries, the demented check-list that it is – the scrapes and the bruises, the fact he'd been concussed, the broken ribs and the fact that, at the end of it, one of his lungs had collapsed. The burns – on his neck, on the back of his left hand – the dislocated shoulder and the broken fingers as well. It was a lot of damage, and it was a miracle he'd made it to the end – but the doctor supposes that, whoever did the damage, had made sure to take his time. Given Sam time to adjust, as much as he was able. Certainly didn't want to kill him too quickly, not that sort of damage. Meant to suffer, meant to last.

It'll be three more days before he hears Sam speak.

–

_Sam's eyes blink open, but the light is too bright, it burns through him. His mouth opens and he may have spoken, or at least tried to, but he isn't actually sure. Somewhere above him, just out of reach, swimming in that bright light, he hears voices, the ones that matter most. That one that makes him ache._

_' – awake! His eyes – – – open – – – mouth – '_

_' – **Tyler** – '_

_Sam's vision almost clears – he hears the beeping of a heart monitor, must be dreaming, because he couldn't possibly be alive – and then his eyes close once more and he blinks to clear the blurriness from them. He knows he's on his back, he can smell the sharp clean stench of the hospital, a faint lingering smell of whisky and smoke as well. But when he can see again, when he's no longer blinded, blurred over and shifting, it's not Gene who's at his side – he knows it should hurt, because all he thinks he should be able to do is feel pain, constant pain, but he's floating in painkillers right now, can hardly focus beyond that._

_Annie's sitting at his bedside, her face drawn and pale, and she reaches for his hand (must be the good one – well, the better one anyhow), a slight smile spread thin on her lips. 'You there, Sam?'_

_He knows there's a tube in his mouth and he can't seem to speak around, he remembers – he doesn't know what he else remembers, over everything else he knows that he does – but part of him wants to flinch and pull away. Tries to nod, shifts his head slightly against an over-starched pillow. He wonders, shouldn't it still hurt to breathe? But there's a machine helping him with that now. He still doesn't know why he isn't dead._

_Still, that same faint smile, and Annie gently pats his hand. 'Don't you worry, Sam. Not feeling too talkative, I understand. Go back to sleep. Need all the rest you can get.'_

_His fingers twitch against Annie's hand, and he didn't mean to shut his eyes, but he still feels them close. In that darkness, sleep comes easily enough, and he's so drugged he's sure he doesn't dream. Next time he wakes – floating upwards once more – it's Gene who's at his bedside, looking just as worn as Annie, though rather more asleep. Doesn't look well at all – the dark circles beneath his eyes, like he's only just been able to find himself any sort of peace, and maybe because – oh. Sam cringes, because he's alive, isn't he alive? He wants to move his hand towards him, but Sam's arm doesn't seem to want to work. But there he is. Finally. Sam keeps at it, at trying to stretch his arm towards Gene, can't because he knows his shoulder had been dislocated, put back in place by this point, no doubt, but still, there's a dull aching in the bone. A sort of pain and tightness beneath all the medication, trying to make itself known. It frustrates him, makes him want to scream and shout, sets his eyes to burning, dry and aching with unshed tears. He tries to talk, instead, his voice rasping as he attempts to say Gene's name._

_Must at least somewhat succeed, because Gene's eyes open – slowly – but then he sits up, jerking himself forward, moving as fast as he can. He grabs at Sam's hand, holding it tightly, clinging to it, as he bends his head forward and presses kisses to it, as if he doesn't care that someone could come walking in at any moment, and with each touch – each press of his lips – Sam feels himself having to stamp down on an almost constant desire to pull away. That stabs him in the heart, makes him want to cry, to shout at himself, because this is Gene, not one of – oh, hell. It's not one of the thugs, not Richard Mackey, it's the man he (argues with almost always) (doesn't always see eye to eye with) **loves**. Sam closes his eyes, thinking backwards, constant pain and misery burning at him, half-remembered memories that lodge in his throat, drown him in their darkness._

_But this is Gene – the man he trusts most, with his life, even if his work ethics aren't exactly the stuff of Sam's dreams. He's a work in progress, a process that Sam has helped smooth, in the year or more they've known each other and worked together. He's almost always been there, helping to pick the pieces back up, often teasing and cursing him as he did. They're rubbing off on each other – too caught up in each other – and more than trusting Gene with his life, he's trusted him with his heart._

_'I'm sorry,' Gene says, and that's not right, Gene shouldn't be sorry, but Sam can't actually seem to make himself talk yet, though he does manage to open his eyes. 'Should have told you, Sam – I'm sorry. My own bloody fault...'_

_Sam feels damp warmth on his cheeks, tears slipping down, the inevitable pull of gravity dragging them down, and Gene blinks and reaches out with a hand, traces the curve of Sam's cheek with the pad of his thumb, smooths his fingers through that wetness. Sam smiles, as best as he can – it's exhausting – and at least his hand behaves, listens to him, and he squeezes Gene's fingers with all the strength that he can manage. It has to be enough. Sam's certain it's all he has left._

_There's so much he wants to say. That it's not Gene's fault. That he's okay, that he's not dead. That Gene can't be sorry, because it's all happened because of Sam. That –_

_'Love you,' he rasps, tongue heavy, voice slurring – because of the tube, and because of the drugs, and because of everything else. Maybe he doesn't even know. Maybe it's the only thing he could have actually said, despite everything else._

_Then Gene's looking at him, his eyes so very wide – caught off guard, but then he's smiling, and it's such a beautiful, sad thing, and Sam doesn't think Gene should be sad at all. 'Yeah,' he manages, and he presses one more kiss to Sam's hand, and this time – maybe because it's Gene, maybe he's gotten that point to finally sink in, but it can't be that easy, he knows it isn't, that he's won a battle and not the war – he doesn't even think to pull away. 'Me too.'_

_He's safe. **He's safe**. He's safe and he's alive and maybe that means that he's really going to be okay. With that final thought, still smiling faintly, tears going cold on his cheeks, Sam sinks back down into sleep._

_And he stays there._

_At least until he's not anymore, and he hears voices – some of them he likes more than others, but they are all, in general, a good enough sort. He thinks he hears Annie, Chris and even Ray, one time, Phyllis, and Gene, almost always, Gene._

_Still floating in sleep, drugged out of his mind, Sam can't imagine any other way it should be._


	4. Chapter 4

It's the little things. The stab wound in Gene's heart that begins to stitch itself back up whenever Sam doesn't pull away from his touch, when Gene's determined to be as gentle as can be. When Sam looks up at him with just enough awareness in his eyes, smiles, and it's that stunningly simple look that lets Gene know that, though he might be a bit drugged to the gills (and then some), Sam still knows who he is. Even as his eyes flutter, trying to stay open, but then he's being pulled back down into a painkiller-addled slumber.

Gene will still be there when he wakes.

–

_It all seems so massive. When he feels the light press of Gene's touch, aware that it's Gene and not some... thing from his memories, a nightmare come back to haunt him, Sam doesn't jerk back, instead stays still and lets Gene's fingers wind about his. How Gene always seems to be there for him these days, and Sam knows him, he always knows him, even when he ends up losing himself in drugged sleep. How that, maybe if Sam had just listened to Gene... if Gene had gone and trusted Sam with the truth. He feels too out of it to really care either way, at least at this point in time, so he smiles at Gene and feels sleep pulling him back down._

_Gene will still be there when he wakes._

–

It's been a long ten days since Sam first came to hospital, some scares at the start when they thought that Sam might still just slip away, his hold was that bloody tentative – only then Sam was speaking, words and more words, and before long, stringing actual sentences together. It was then Gene knew, truly knew, that Sam would be okay. So Gene lets himself rest more, makes sure to take care of himself, because the more aware Sam grows, the more likely he is to point out how Gene looks like shit. They take shifts at times, Annie and Chris mostly, though Ray does sometimes peek in to check on Chris, and in a way, check in on Sam as well. Right now, Gene's where he should be, in the little rotten chair beside Sam's stark white bed. It's hell on his back, but it could be worse.

Sam's looking better. Looked like hell after all that surgery, when he was days away from waking up, but he was alive and that meant he would recover, a belief that was only intensified by the doctor's insistence that Sam's condition was finally stable. How he'd made it that far, how he really was that strong, how it was obvious he had no intents on just giving up.

Each day that goes by finds Sam to be a little bit more there, at least in the time where the medication is in the process of running out, right before it needs to be topped off, when he seemed to lean on the pain like it was a crutch, something that helped sharpen him, give him some sort of focus.

Sam winces as he tries to sit up, and Gene huffs a breath, stands to help him. 'Can't you just ask for help?' A ghost of pain passes over Sam's face, so Gene knows it's that time again, just about time for more of his drugs – only Sam's made enough of a fuss about it over the week, how he likes having some time where he can still think, still feel.

Sam smiles, and maybe Gene's cracked or still over-tired, but it might just be the most beautiful thing he's ever see. The bruises still showing on his skin, maybe, but fading more and more as the days pass by, some of them even yellowing at this point. After waking three days before, they'd not taken him off the ventilator right away, or removed the tubing that was stuck down his throat – not exactly essential – but now, ten days on, and Sam's starting to get a bit restless. How bloody typical is that?

And why does that make Gene feel as hopeful as he does?

When Gene looks at Sam, he doesn't let his gaze linger on the scab on his neck, what he eventually learned was a cigarette burn of all things, and it was a bloody bad habit anyhow, and one Gene thinks he might finally be able to quit. He thinks about all the laundry he needs to do. How he'll need to get his coat dry cleaned, if he ever wants to get the stench of smoke out of it. If it can ever be cleaned enough that the smell will completely go away.

In fact, once he put that together – that unpleasant two and two – he stopped wearing the thing at all. Hardly needs it, this time of year.

What does he smell like now? Sam's not acting like he's bothered by it, whatever it is, or maybe Sam's just tired of the hospital now, and that could be all that's on his mind. Tired of it, wanting to get out of the bloody despicable place.

'No,' Sam says, biting at his lip, his voice hoarse with disuse – it's been a few days since they took the tubing out, but Sam isn't quite yet back to talking nearly as much as Gene is used to. 'Guess I can't.' Then, and even his laugh sounds tired, Sam grimacing where perhaps he meant to smile. 'Can I give it another shot?'

'Go for it, Sam.'

He closes his eyes – too pale, his skin's too pale, really, he needs the sun, he needs to glow, Gene needs to stop pondering idiotic lunacy like that, as though he's the worst sort of bloody fairy pansy. Then Sam's eyes crack back open, he tilts his head up, stares at Gene dead on. 'Help me – please.' And that, just like the start of it, all those days and weeks and months before, Gene follows through. Three little words that lead them both down the right path.

He can – he has – but Gene grabs hold of his good shoulder, has to put pressure on the other as well. 'Might hurt a bit.' He knows Sam's arm is mostly on the mend – they'd popped it back into location more than a week ago, after all – only there's still some latent pain, some twinging as well, and a general sort of discomfort that (or so Sam sometimes laments) never seems to go away.

He's ready, but that doesn't mean Sam is. He's waiting for Sam to say something, give him the word. Sam realises that, as if all Gene needed to do was think it.

Sam nods, no hesitation at all, a flicker of that smug certainty that Gene knows and... that Gene knows all too bloody well. 'Yeah, I know. I'm ready for it, Gene.'

So Gene slides one hand under the arm, to get a better grip, and then he's hoisting Sam up to sit – Sam coughs a bit, wheezes, and Gene has a moment of panic, one Sam is quick enough to wave away. He lifts his arm up, gives his bad hand a little, trembling shake, and then Sam slowly breathes in. 'I'm okay. It's better now.'

'Sam...'

He gives a little laugh, but there's no humour in it at all. He sets his hand down on his lap, staring at the bandaging, the braces underneath. 'The doctor was telling me how the bones aren't healing right,' he mutters. 'That they're going to have to rebreak them, put them in a proper cast.'

'Yeah... yeah, he told me the same. Thought about telling him to break his sodding self, but...' Gene looks for the right words. 'Know it's for the best.'

Doesn’t know what else to say, so he pats Sam's good hand gently, brushes his fingers over the bad one, catches the corner of Sam's wry gaze, and then Gene slips back down into his seat. He turns away, stares at the far wall of his off-white, private room. Sam heaves a small sigh, shakes his head. 'Least it's not my dominant hand.' Then, and he's still not meeting Gene's gaze. 'Something I meant to tell you,' he says, so low that Gene wonders if he'd even continued speaking at all.

'What's that, Tyler?'

A bitter noise. 'Don't rush me.'

'Not, Sam – never will. Take your time – '

– _I love you_ –

' – say it when you feel you can, alright?'

Sam nods. Only, then – and Gene checks his watch twice – it takes Sam five minutes before he finally up and speaks. He lets his breath out, slowly, before gathering it back, and he's looking towards the foot of the bed now, but Gene can see the lines of tension on his still-battered face.

'It was Mackey,' and it comes out in a rush, so Sam coughs, then grimaces, before coughing again, and Gene blinks, blinks again. 'Who – ' he hesitates, closing his eyes, leans his head forward, pain radiating outwards. 'At the end, it was all Mackey's doing.'

'Didn't think him the sort to get his hands dirty,' Gene mutters, doesn't know what else to say, and he doesn't even realise he'd moved, scooted his chair closer to Sam's bed, reaching out to take hold of his uninjured hand – he keeps hold of it, studies the back of it, only saw the other one that one time, but won't ever forget the sight of those burns. Anything he'd thought of Richard Mackey, well, that was certainly something new, and how is it Gene can be so detached, that sort of revelation in mind?

He hadn't taken his fury out on the bastard the way he'd wanted to, when Sam was still missing, and now he's torn – a bitter-sweet sort of longing, because he could have bloodied his fists and loafers thoroughly on that wretch of a man. Still, if he'd done that sort of thing, then where would they be now? Still here, Sam still broken, mending, only a bloodied and beaten Mackey would put such massive holes into their case against him, well, there might be no way around the mess that it would cause.

'Said I was a special case,' Sam mutters. 'That when you found me, he wanted to make sure you understood.' There's a hidden undercurrent to Sam's voice, something pleading, but something that Gene can't clearly place: almost as though, hidden beneath those words, there's something else altogether: _Please don't bollocks this up, Gene. Please don't. He can't walk free._

He's been doing just that. Sam needs him to have his back on this, and Gene is going to give him that and more.

Was thorough with Sam's jacket, after they found it, before Gene had it sent off to be cleaned – they picked apart that warehouse, have done a thorough job of rounding up Mackey's thugs, dug into his records, the hidden ones, tracking down his connections, the history of his deals, the notes on the burglaries, all in code, of course, but Annie is good at crossword puzzles and that general sort of thing, and she'd found it easy enough to crack.

What was it that Sam so liked to say? God is in the detail, right. Gene might not be heading this himself, but he's ridden his team hard, made sure they knew just how important it was, making sure they gathered the right information, followed the connections from one lead to another, piecing it all together. And maybe he's not been there himself, but he trusts Annie rather implicitly to be a guiding force. That and he doubts Chris would let Ray slack, not on something as important as this. Ray knows what he's doing, at least from time to time. No, they're all working together, maybe not guided by him directly, that or Sam's more finicky ways, but they're being the responsible officers that both Gene and Sam have helped forge them to be.

Even the evidence they've been able to gather has mostly won the Superintendent over, made him gloss over the fact that Mackey should have been charged by now. How exactly could they press forward when the main witness in the case was still in the process of recovering from torture and near murder? But now that Sam's awake, and speaking, and back in control of his mental capacities, they can go further than Gene ever would have expected them to be able to: because now Sam can place Mackey in that room.

Still.

'Oh.' _Oh_. What else could he say? Yes, he could have beat the man, sent him to hospital as well, but, he's safely tucked away inside a cell instead, even the Superintendent doing his part to keep him right there. And with this new information, though, it'll more than just cement Mackey's trip to gaol. 'Made his point then, I guess.'

Sam laughs faintly, winces, and coughs as well. 'Gene, I – '

'Sam, I – '

Silence, after that, both having tried to speak at the same time. 'You first,' Gene insists, and Sam nods, shifting a bit where he sits. Then he gives a little wheezing breath. Shifts again. Speaks.

'I'm sorry,' Sam whispers, closing his eyes, and Gene's mouth falls open in shock. 'Should have listened to you. Thought you – thought you were just being yourself, yeah? Thinking you wanted an easy fix to something that needed more – more evidence, more anything. Dunno what I was thinking, really – should have trusted you knew what you were on about, really... After all this time, I just thought you hadn't learned.'

'Oh, Sam – no, bloody hell, no,' and Gene heaves out an unhappy laugh, Sam's eyes stuttering open slowly. 'It's all my fault, and don't you dare say otherwise – I didn't trust _you_ when I needed to, and you're the one who paid the price. No – I know what you're going to say, Sam, and you don't understand. You're here because I had my head stuck up me own jacksie, and – '

And it shouldn't happen like this, only it's Sam, and it does –

'But I'm alive because of you, yeah? Because you found me.'

'Cause I scared that prick senseless and made him cough up your location, yeah. I could have killed the man, Sam.' A tired, bitter laugh. 'I wanted to.'

'Fair's fair,' Sam says, folding his fingers over Gene's hand. 'All that counts.'

And for the first time since the last time, Gene breaks down and cries, leans forward as he does, wants to jerk his hand away from Sam, bury his face in his hands. Then Sam's good arm is wrapping about him, feels the bandages of the other hand pressing against his cheek, careful as anything, light as breath. All that counts, or so Sam says. What really counts? How he'd come so close to losing him, and all because of his own bloody stubbornness? It's in his mind now, Sam, the crumpled heap of his body, pale and broken, the bruises, too much blood.

One final smile. And then, Sam had been gone.

Dead to the world.

Now that they've started, the tears won't stop.

Oh, it's a bad idea – it's still a bad idea – no matter how long it's really been. Gene shifts, tilts his head back, Sam's face looming so close to his own, pale, the worried weight of his brow. Caught inside Sam's personal space, his favourite place to be, and then he pushes forward, kisses one pale yellowed bruise, then another. Could run his hand up Sam's side, if he had half a heart to – not that he's seen it himself, but he knows of the broken ribs, the bruising there as well. Only he doesn't, not when he feels the shudder of Sam's breath, watches his eyes slip closed. Gene's making his way across the hurts of Sam's face, finally bringing himself to Sam's lips. He feels Sam's good hand twitching, digging itself into Gene's suit-jacket. Holding on tight.

It's dry, somewhat cold, nearly too sterile, and that's the hospital to blame. Still, it's Sam, who's alive, who's still with him, who's not allowed to leave him, not forever, or at least not a very long time. It's somehow better than any other kiss they'd shared, and Gene doesn't care if that makes him the biggest bloody fairy in the world. Not right now. Not this moment. Not as Sam groans, and it's no groan of pain.

Only then it stops, slipping out of place. Sam blinks, slowly, pale pink tinting his cheeks. 'Gene – '

Gene presses a finger to Sam's mouth – Sam's right eyebrow twitches, he kisses the pad of Gene's finger, and then a grin spreads on his lips. Gene grins back at him, and at least for that moment, he stops breaking.

Almost forgets about the tears that are currently drying on his face.

–

_He's woken up, from a nightmare to a drug-induced dream, and these days, too much where he wasn't sure what was real, and what was not, but these days – mostly, anyhow – he feels like he knows what's what._

_At least in between one dose of his medication and the next, where he has enough of his mind in place. Like now. And he sees it in Gene's eyes, where their gazes are locked together, that Gene's giving him a minute, maybe more, to feel like he's human before he calls the nurses in._

_First things first – he grunts softly, trying to push himself up to sit. His shoulder screams in protest, not to mention his hand, and Sam bites down on the laughing groan of pain that's trying to force its way free. Been long enough since he'd woken up, really woken up (too many days between that and jumping, and dying, and waking up, knowing there's no going back), but Sam's having trouble keeping track of the days. Once, Gene said seven days, only then it seemed like one moment more had passed, and it was ten of them instead._

_Ten – his hands shaking – how hard is it to believe, he's this put back together, when a week and a half ago he was... He almost closes his eyes, tries to sit up a bit more, wincing, and this time Gene must have seen that marginal movement, because then he's huffing a breath, sighing as he scowls, standing to help him. Sam can't look back, at least not now, not when the pain's a bloody bone deep aching, reminding him of the bad things, yes, but also making him see the good._

_That he's here. That there might be pain, but it takes the good stuff as well as the bad stuff to remind you you're alive._

_'Can't you just ask for help?'_

_A slow smile curls on Sam's lips, and Gene's standing now, looks a bit dazed, almost slack-jawed, just staring back down at him. Then Gene shakes his head, comes back to himself, and maybe he still isn't used to what he's seeing. Sam knows he's still not a pretty sight, because he's bruised and he's still broken, but that's not kept Gene from coming back to him, day in and day out. Doesn't talk about Mackey, because Sam's not brought it up, hasn't been able to. Though Sam does wonder about the state of CID, it being without them both. He wants to be better. He's tired of being trapped in this bed. He wants to get up, move on, get **back**._

_He knows Mackey's been arrested, that's he's being held – long after he should have been released, so whatever investigation Gene's leading against him, it has to be good. Because Mackey needs to pay. And Gene, oh, Gene doesn't even know the best part of it._

_So, conveniently enough, Sam's got something to say that might just make that wish come true._

_He knows Gene's looking at him, feels his gaze sliding over him, not lingering at any point in particular – the bruises, the one burn that's scabbed over, and the thought of Gene smoking, ever again, makes Sam dizzy, makes him feel sick. Maybe it's something they'll need to talk about, eventually, but not right now – he's got other things on his mind. When he keeps himself otherwise occupied, it doesn't bother him as much._

_He knows and appreciates that Gene doesn't even bring the coat around, even though he still has a faint linger smell of smoke about him. It isn't the most awful thing in the world, even if it is, tickling his memories and sometimes bringing them back in sharp detail._

_Really though, first things first._

_'No,' Sam says, biting at his lip, and it startles him how hoarse his voice is – but he hasn't done much talking, has he, not between his typical level of drowsiness, that and the tracheal tube that had been stuck down his mouth, at least until two days and a half-hour ago, give or take. He'd been on it so long, the doctor had given him exercises to help him start breathing on his own, and he must be doing well, because he doesn't feel breathless, not even a little. Maybe not now. Because he's calm, because he's not scared of nothing and everything, because he has something important to say and he can't let any left over panic creep into his voice. Because it does still catch up with him, at least from time to time. 'Guess I can't.' He laughs, and it sounds just as tired as he feels. 'Can I give it another shot?'_

_The puff of Gene's laughter, given in return. 'Go for it, Sam.'_

_Sam tries to smile, thinks he fails, closing his eyes – just for one moment – before cracking them back open. Tilts his head back. Stares at Gene, so close in his chair, so very far away. 'Help me – please.' That was the start of it, wasn't it? It always comes back to that._

_Gene nods, 'might hurt a bit,' he says, shifts himself, and Sam really is getting better, because he doesn't even flinch when Gene puts his hand down on Sam's shoulder – the one that had nearly been broken, dislocated, but popped back into place, and he's going to have trouble writing for a long while, he thinks, and somehow he knows his penmanship will never be the same. It hurts, only then sometimes the entire thing feels numb, and if it's not one or the other, there's just a general sort of discomfort that never quite manages to completely go away. He's complained about it a lot, words slurring from the medications._

_Gene's hesitating – waiting for him to say something, and Sam guesses it in one go._

_He nods, no need to pause. 'Yeah, I know. I'm ready for it, Gene.'_

_So he slides one hand under the arm, to get a better grip, and then he's hoisting Sam up to sit – Sam coughs a bit, wheezes, and he feels Gene tense, the panic rolling through him, how it spreads down into Sam, and Sam can't let that one thing lead to another. He pushes it away, Gene's hands and that sort of deep, creeping panic, and Sam slowly drags his arm up, the bad hand wrapped in its bandages, gives it a little shake. Because now that it's stopped, he's having trouble making it stop. Slowly, he breathes in, feels a dry burning in his eyes. 'I'm okay. It's better now.'_

_'Sam...'_

_He gives a little laugh, but there's nothing funny about it, and he sets his bandaged hand down, stares at it, wants to wish it away, or better yet, wish it better. The pale bandages, the braces underneath. The fact that... 'The doctor was telling me how the bones aren't healing right,' he mutters, swallows slowly, feels like he's spinning, like he'll forever be sick. 'That they're going to have to rebreak them, put them in a proper cast.'_

_'Yeah...' The dry shudder of Gene's breath. 'Yeah, he told me the same. Thought about telling him to break his sodding self, but...' He pauses. 'Know it's for the best.'_

_Silence drops, and Sam looks down, squeezes his eyes shut. He feels Gene's touch at his good hand, patting it lightly, the way it lingers before moving to the bandaged hand, brushing it with the tips of his fingers. Sam opens his eyes, feels himself grinning as Gene looks at him, keeps an eye on him as Gene slips back, falls back into his seat. He's sitting up. He has what he wanted. Now he just needs to say what he needs to say, what he's needed to say all along._

_But he sighs softly, shakes his head instead. 'Least it's not my dominant hand.' And that, somehow, leads into the next, as though he needed to break the ice. 'Something I meant to tell you,' he whispers, words falling dry and brittle from his mouth._

_'What's that, Tyler?'_

_A bitter sound, not quite a laugh. 'Don't rush me.'_

_'Not, Sam – never will. Take your time... say it when you can, alright?'_

_Sam nods. Keeps looking forward, away, anywhere but Gene. He doesn't know how long he sits and waits, only he can almost hear the seconds ticking by, and it adds to the sick sort of realisation that's spinning in his stomach. He can't avoid this. It needs to be said, needs to be done, chip away at the nightmare of his life, the stretch of that time where he was better off dead._

_Did he think that then? Does he really think that now? Try as he might, there's certain details that Sam can't bring himself to remember, while there are other things (specifically, certain shocks of pain) that he's sure he's never going to be able to forget._

_He's okay, though – he's okay. He doesn't even flinch when Gene touches him, these days._

_'It was Mackey,' and now that he's started, it wants to come out in one fast rush. Sam coughs, and his lungs give a small shriek of agony, convulsing. Still in recovery. Broken ribs don't just heal in a day._

_Another cough, though, was that the taste of blood? Sam grimaces, swallows it down. He tries to go on. 'Who – ' he hesitates, closing his eyes, leans his head forward, finds it hard to think – to speak – through the pain. 'At the end, it was all Mackey's doing.'_

_'Didn't think him the sort to get his hands dirty,' Gene mutters, and his words are dull, hard things, disbelief and shock. Sam hears the chair shifting forward, the squeak of the plastic on the ground, but he doesn't look up, not even when Gene reaches out, takes hold of Sam's uninjured hand. He hadn't known – well, he'd learned that Mackey was involved, but not so directly, and Gene's strained silence must be him working that through, trying to make some sort of sense, Sam having unloaded a rather startling bit of news on him, after all._

_'Said I was a special case,' Sam mutters. 'That when you found me, he wanted to make sure you understood.' There's a lot he'd like to ask Gene, because other than things he's managed to overhear – mostly when they think he's been asleep – he doesn't know the details in regards to the actual investigation – his abduction, the... trauma he suffered, as well. He'll have to ask, eventually, and hopefully Gene will tell him what he needs to know – but he has to trust that Gene knows what he's doing, that he won't bollocks this up, that he won't let Mackey walk free._

_But he won't actually go and put that thought to words: Please don't bollocks it up, Gene. How very polite of him, even after everything else._

_'Oh.' Gene's exhalation is faint, but the shock of it is more stunning than proper words. Maybe this is what Gene will need to break this case, to make sure Mackey goes away for a long, long time. Maybe? No. More than any **maybe** , Sam knows this is **it**. 'Made his point then, I guess.'_

_Sam gives a small laugh, winces, his insides churning, the pain starting to press down at him, almost too much. He coughs as well, which only adds to the strain. 'Gene, I – '_

_'Sam, I – '_

_Silence, after that, both having tried to speak at the same time. 'You first,' Gene insists, and Sam nods, shifting a bit where he sits. Then he gives a little wheezing breath. Shifts again. Speaks._

_'I'm sorry,' Sam whispers, closing his eyes, and maybe he doesn't see it, but he hears Gene's gasp of shock. No, he's started this, and he's going to speak it through to the end. For once in his life (in this era), he needs to apologise – really feeling as though he was the one who blindly did wrong. 'Should have listened to you. Thought you – thought you were just being yourself, yeah? Thinking you wanted an easy fix to something that needed more – more evidence, more anything. Dunno what I was thinking, really – should have trusted you knew what you were on about, really... After all this time, I just thought you hadn't learned.'_

_'Oh, Sam – no, bloody hell, no,' and Gene gives a short, unhappy laugh, Sam's eyes blinking back open. He wants to speak up once more, only then Gene's continuing on. 'It's all my fault, and don't you dare say otherwise – I didn't trust _you_ when I needed to, and you're the one who paid the price. No – I know what you're going to say, Sam, and you don't understand. You're here because I had my head stuck up me own jacksie, and – '_

_The quiet of Sam's voice, feels it stretched too thin, something about to snap. 'But I'm alive because of you, yeah? Because you found me.' He doesn't want it to be Gene's fault. Sam's the one who put himself at risk, and they can't fight about this, they can't –_

_'Cause I scared that prick senseless and made him cough up your location, yeah. I could have killed the man, Sam.' Gene rubs at his eyes, doesn't seem to notice. Gives such a small, tired laugh. 'I wanted to.'_

_Sam processes this information – something he doesn't want to hear, something he doesn't want to admit to, and he doesn't want to be the bigger person here. He wants it to be his fault, because somehow that makes it all more bearable. So, he buries that deep inside, reaching out to fold his fingers over Gene's hand. 'Fair's fair – all that counts.'_

_Gene tilts his head up, his eyes gone incredibly wide – the tears start falling as Gene wrenches his mouth open, doesn't seem to notice how his emotions are playing out. Sam's fingers twitch, he wants to reach out, brush one of those tears away, studies the glistening tracks instead. He feels like he's seeing Gene open up to him, two seconds away before he starts shutting down. Sam moves without thinking, not minding the pain, the deep discomfort, the general awkwardness of making his body do what he wants it to. He wraps his good arm about Gene, wants to sink into the heat of his body. Even his injured hand is put to use, pressing the bandaged thing to Gene's wet cheek._

_He just keeps crying, not making a sound._

_Then Gene's eyes are searching his – something slotting into place – and Gene shifts, tilts his head back slightly, and Sam feels him slipping into Sam's own personal space, hardly breathing, revels in Gene's closeness instead of flinching away. This is it. Something Sam needed, something he didn't realise was so necessary, only he feels his breath stutter, the flicker of his eyes as he forces them to stay open, Gene pressing a soft kiss to his face. And then another. One more shuddering breath, and Sam's eyes finally slip shut. More soft kisses, Gene mapping out the hurts of Sam's face, and then like coming home, Gene's mouth against his. Before he's aware of it happening, his good hand's clinging to Gene's suit-jacket. Opens his mouth to Gene. Like every time before, gives all that he can, and then he groans, too hot, spinning, and it's not a groan of pain._

_Without a word, Gene slips away, and Sam licks at his lips, almost thinks he might smile. 'Gene – ' For one panicked moment, he doesn't think he can breathe – that all the exercises were for nothing, that he's dying all over again – only it passes, and Sam pushes that air out and easily takes in another gulp._

_Gene blinks, still not speaking, reaches up to press a finger to Sam's lips – which, amusement flashing on his face, Sam kisses, feeling his lips twitch up into a grin. A grin that Gene returns, with equally stunning force._

_The tears are drying on Gene's face, and it's only then that Sam wonders at the burn of them in his own. For one moment, he wants to believe – thinks he does – that everything really will be alright._

–

The end of it comes, as endings tend to. Gene's not there when Sam's sedated, the fingers rebroken, and the next time he sees him, he's sporting a cast and a sling about his shoulder, rather thoroughly drugged out of his mind. He sleeps for two days after that, wakes for one, and then sleeps two more days, only then it's been more than two weeks and he mostly seems to be on the mend, and his doctor is thinking it's just about time to cut him loose.

'Does he have – ah, friends or family that might be able to look after him? He's still very injured, but his body is healing – he shouldn't be on his own.'

For one moment in his adult life, wrapped in this career, he doesn't guess at what the hospital staff might say about him, how tangled he and his DI, their now ex-patient, might seem, the fact that he spent a lot of these last fifteen days asleep at Sam's bedside, or talking to him, or doing what he could to give him some comfort, and probably too many times they'd almost been caught kissing, or making some other tender gesture that Gene would never admit to having actually made.

'He's going home with me,' Gene snaps at the doctor, who blinks, nods. Gene supposes he should have, at some point, learned the bastard's name. He looks down at his clipboard, his pen scratching as he writes. Passes a piece of papers over, several of them, in fact.

'Here are some things to keep in mind. Plus a note as to the medications he'll be taking home.'

Gene nods, folds up the paper, shoves them away. Watches the doctor go off to tell Sam the good news, following after him, standing at the doorway – looking at Sam, lying pale in bed, the dark blue of the sling, the off-white of the plaster sticking out. Sam blinks slowly, confusion flickering over his face. Then he looks at the doctor, at Gene, back again (twice over). And then Sam's smiling, and that must be the best thing in the world.

' – and that means you're ready to be released. We'll want you to follow up with your personal physician, who'll be able to let you know how you're continuing to recover.' He flips through his paperwork. 'But you have been doing a stunning job so far. Just don't do anything to strain yourself too much, Mr Tyler, and you're well on your way to – '

'Going back to work?'

The doctor gives a small, strained laugh. 'Amongst other things, I'm sure. A nurse will be in shortly. Take care of yourself, Mr Tyler.'

Sam's good hand, the fingers of it, that is, are tapping impatiently. 'Thank you, Dr Miller.'

Dr Miller, so it is, nods at him – glances at Gene – and then leaves them alone.

Gene shuffles over to Sam's bedside, doesn't sit, stands and reaches to brush his fingers over Sam's free hand instead. He doesn't know what he wants to say, only that he needs to say it, and it rather just happens. Sometimes that's just the way it is. 'I... hope it doesn't seem too forward, but I don't know if I could be damned to care. Come home with me, yeah?'

Sam's eyes widen. His lips part, to say something – maybe to shoot him down – only then he's pressing his mouth shut, a thin, worried line. What he says comes out suddenly, but with no hesitation: 'Don't expect to be mollycoddled, Gene.'

Gene huffs a breath as he nods, stroking the back of Sam's hand – and then Sam shifts his hand, twining their fingers together. He smiles down at it, and Gene rolls his eyes, wonders when he let this man remake his world so completely. Gives Sam's hand a firm squeeze at the thought. 'Maybe, maybe not. Just want to keep an eye on you, is all. Easier if you're in me own bed, don't you think?'

Sam nods, still looking at their hands. 'I'm okay, you know. I really am.'

Gene nods, blinks slowly. 'I know. I want to believe you are.'

Silence, and did he say the wrong thing? Because Sam's looking up at him, and his too-readable face has never been that bloody blank. 'What – don't you trust me, Gene? Isn't that what this is all about?'

Oh, Sam – Sam, he wants to shake him, hug him, keep him forever, definitely protect him from the world, himself, but maybe he needs some protecting from Gene as well, seeing as sometimes he so obstinately manages to get in the way. 'I trust you Sam, of course I bloody do – only I'm not so sure you trust yourself.'

Sam blinks – mouth opens, closes, opens again, and then he gives a little laugh. 'Oh – well – fair enough.' And that's just that, not the truth of a thing sinking in, only giving Sam something to think about.

'Don't flinch when I touch your hand, not now.' Gene smiles, Sam does as well, and Gene closes his eyes, listens to the quiet rasping of Sam's breath. Presses Sam's hand once more, just as firmly as he can, opening his eyes to see the light of Sam's face. 'You'll be wanting to go back to work eventually, I know, and I need to make sure you're taking good care of yourself. That's all that is.'

'Gene, I...'

'I'll bring case files home in the evening, if you'd like. We can argue about them too, if it pleases you. I'm sorry I – '

'Gene, no – '

'No. Said it before, so I'm saying it again – as much as I need to, till it sinks into that bloody thick skull of yours. I'm sorry I didn't trust you enough to tell you the risk you were in, Sam. Trusted you with my life, but not that – funny, I suppose. No, not funny at all. I do trust you, though. Trust you with everything I am.'

That strips Sam away from himself, and their hands are still wound together. 'I know. I mean, you've trusted me with your heart.' Such quiet words, such undeniable truth. Never hoped for it, not front the start – couldn't have even imagined it, back at their meeting, that he'd be able to view Sam as anything but an obnoxious colleague, let alone a friend. Let alone anything more.

Gene doesn't know what to say, and Sam carries their conversation onwards, diverting the flow of it, so to say. 'We'll have to go round my flat first.'

'Pick up some things, yeah? Oh – that reminds me.'

He pulls it from from his pocket, the small dark box, and Sam's eyes widen in interest – Gene pops the lid off, only then he has to tug his hand away from Sam's in order to slide that back into his pocket, the box itself as well.

Gene's gaze flickers to his. 'Had to get your jacket cleaned – but it's in the Cortina. Got this for you, too – had to have the chain replaced.' The length of metal glints in the sharp light of the room, and Sam's eyes widen. Surprise. Revelation.

Then he blinks, uses his good hand to rub at the once-dislocated shoulder. 'Oh. Forgot about that. It was broken when...'

He thinks it was a bad idea, suddenly, the way that Sam's eyes are still wide – looking backwards, tripping his way through memories. Then he lets loose a small breath, nodding to himself – licks his lips, rubs at his shoulder once more, steadily rising from the dark pit of where he'd wandered. 'That girl, yeah? Saw her across the street. Suppose she must have gotten a good look at what was going on. Glad she did.'

Gene nods, simple as that. 'Wouldn't have known the trouble you were in if not for her. Mackey was being a bastard at the time, the sort who was too stubborn to talk..'

Sam smiles, but he's holding onto his chain. 'Help me get it on, yeah?' He grits his teeth, grunting as he sits forward, slowly. Gene wants to tell him not to rush, to let Gene give him a hand, but Sam's told him already he'll ask if help is needed (in fact, he'd made a promise of it, and just the night before, and Gene plans on doing what he can to make Sam keep his word), and Gene doesn't want to push.

Then he's sitting up, his breathing somewhat more laboured, the odd wheeze from time to time, the soft and steady rasp, and Gene steps round a bit closer to slip the chain around Sam's neck, the clasp opening easily enough but being more of a bother as Gene's fingers fumble, trying to fasten it again. Then it's secured, and Sam reaches up to tug at it – Gene's eyes flick to the scab of the burn, but it's well above the length of metal. Yes, definitely doesn't feel like smoking ever again.

Gene drops both his hands to hang heavily at his sides. 'Ready to come home with me, Sam? Could just stay forever, if you'd like.'

Sam doesn't look up, huffs a small laugh – almost pained – instead. 'I... I've been waiting for you to ask, Gene.' How bloody Dorothy of him, but... well, Gene's very clearly feeling it as well. Just been one of those months.

He knows exactly why he couldn't find the words, what made it so difficult to make it fit, but Sam doesn't need to know that. 'Took me a while to work up the nerve.'

'Yeah... okay then. I'd like that a lot.'

Gene fights back the urge to smile, though the intent must be clear. It's the only choice that Sam could have made. Sam's not been the death of him yet.

–

_Sam feels a change in the air – Dr Miller has been in to see him three times this morning, and somehow Sam's sure that things are going to move a bit further, keep on moving along. It's been days now since he had his fingers rebroken, set again, and as long as the bones begin to heal correctly, he shouldn't have to endure that again. He was sedated when it happened, and ever since he's woken up, somewhere beneath the painkillers that almost always fog his mind, there's a deep itching that he can't seem to escape, maybe he's just thinking too much, but maybe it's the shifting of bone as it begins to mend._

_His hand is in a cast now, a sling supporting it about his shoulder. The ribs are healing nicely, but there's weeks more before they'll be properly healed. Still, Sam's getting properly restless – needs to get out of here, yesterday at possible if not today._

_Slept two days after the cast was set, remembers being awake for maybe one as well, and then he slept two more. And now Dr Miller keeps lurking about, like he means to say something, and Sam's waiting, but he doesn't want to be too expectant, go so far as to hold his breath. Lungs are still healing, after all. Doesn't think he can take the strain._

_He hears Miller's voice – maybe Gene's, as well, but Sam can't be sure. He's lying in bed once more, though he'd sat up earlier, for half the morning at least, with the help of one of the ever changing nurses. Can't see it at this angle, but he's tapping the fingers of his good hand – the better if not perfect arm – against the sheet, feeling them move, wiggling them about._

_It hasn't all been bad. But he's tired of this bed, trapped in it too long. He wants to get up. He wants to get out. He wants to try and walk for more than those little spells they allow him, because he's done physical therapy before, he knows how important it is to get up and **move**._

_Doesn't look forward to going home alone to his flat, if that's what ends up happening. Can't stand the thought of it, of being there, the loneliness, the – well, that's it, just that. He hears the click of a shoe hitting tile, looks up, sees Dr Miller at the open door, Gene as well, and Sam's gaze flickers between the both of them, several times over. Then Sam feels the smile stretching on his lips, sees the small smile stretching on Gene's as well._

_He'll never get tired of that, of seeing Gene smile._

_He blinks, finally beginning to pay attention to the fact that Dr Miller is talking: ' – and that means you're ready to be released. We'll want you to follow up with your personal physician, who'll be able to let you know how you're continuing to recover.' He flips through his paperwork, muttering to himself. 'But you have been doing a stunning job so far. Just don't do anything to strain yourself over much, Mr Tyler, and you're well on your way to – '_

_'Going back to work?'_

_The doctor gives a small, strained laugh, but of course Sam would have asked that – it's expected of him, almost. 'Amongst other things, I'm sure. A nurse will be in shortly. Take care of yourself, Mr Tyler.'_

_He feels his fingers, still tapping, more impatiently now. 'Thank you, Dr Miller.'_

_Dr Miller nods at him, glances once at Gene, and then leaves them alone._

_After that, Gene shuffles over to Sam's bedside, brushes his fingers over Sam's hand, smiling to himself. There's something at war in his eyes, something that Gene is trying to piece together, and Sam feels somewhat concerned – Gene's happy, it's clear he is, so what... 'I... hope it doesn't seem too forward, but I don't know if I could be damned to care. Come home with me, yeah?'_

_Sam's eyes widen. His lips part, to say something, anything, only his tongue feels heavy, his throat is dry, and the words he needs have fled him, abandoned him in his time of need. He could laugh. He could cry. He could get down to the base of it, say what needs to be said in return. Not saying yes, not directly, only agreeing to it in his own special way. 'Don't expect to be mollycoddled, Gene.'_

_Gene huffs a breath as he nods, stroking the back of Sam's hand – and then Sam shifts his hand, twining their fingers together, smiles as he does. How does any of this make sense? Because it does, even if it doesn't, and Sam's not certain how he wound his way to this eventuality. That Gene could become such an important fixture in his life. And he said he didn't expect mollycoddling, only he knows Gene won't just let him fuss about in pain – that's been them since a certain start of theirs, after all. Gene interrupts his thoughts, begins to speak, giving Sam's hand a firm squeeze. 'Maybe, maybe not. Just want to keep an eye on you, is all. Easier if you're in me own bed, don't you think?'_

_Sam nods, still looking at their hands. 'I'm okay, you know. I really am.'_

_Gene sounds hesitant. 'I know. I want to believe you are.'_

_Sam blinks, shifts his head, turns to look up at Gene, feels the emotion slipping off his face. Oh – **oh**. 'What – don't you trust me, Gene? Isn't that what this is all about?' What has he suffered for, and through, if not to build their trust...?_

_The reaction is immediate – how Gene tenses, looks like he wants to kiss him, hold onto him forever. 'I trust you Sam, of course I bloody do – only I'm not so sure you trust yourself.' And, well, that makes sense, and Sam blinks – mouth opening and closing, useless as ever – and then he gives a small, bitter tasting laugh._

_'Oh – well – fair enough.' What else could he say?_

_'Don't flinch when I touch your hand, not now.' Gene smiles, Sam does as well, and that's true, isn't it? Not sure if it'll always be that easy, but it's good groundwork to follow, something that Sam can look back on, when it gets rough – he's sure it's going to get rough. 'You'll be wanting to go back to work eventually, I know, and I need to make sure you're taking good care of yourself. That's all that is.'_

_'Gene, I...'_

_'I'll bring case files home in the evening, if you'd like. We can argue about them too, if it pleases you. I'm sorry I – '_

_'Gene, no – '_

_'No. Said it before, so I'm saying it again – as much as I need too, til it sinks through that bloody thick skull of yours. I'm sorry I didn't trust you enough to tell you the risk you were in, Sam. Trusted you with my life, but not that – funny, I suppose. No, not funny at all. I do trust you, though. Trust you with everything I am.'_

_Sam doesn't know what to say, not after that, so he studies their tightly wrapped hands instead. 'I know. I mean, you've trusted me with your heart.' And isn't that the truth of it, even if Sam had to beat down Gene's defences before he was able to let himself in. Only he feels like that was what happened in return. He wonders if, after this, Gene will still have a taste for violence... still in hospital as he is, Sam finds it hard to even consider a future punch up. They might just have to begin relying on words._

_Gene's not speaking, though, and Sam needs to say something – anything – so anything it is. 'We'll have to go round my flat first.'_

_'Pick up some things, yeah? Oh – that reminds me.'_

_Gene tugs a box out from his pocket, pulls his hand away as well, because he popped the lid off and needed both hands to get the chain out, but to put the box away as well. The medallion gives a soft clink, and Sam's eyes go wide. Because he has what he needed, the long silver chain, the St Christopher’s medallion hanging from it. No wonder he'd felt so lost._

_Gene's gaze flickers to his. 'Had to get your jacket cleaned – but it's in the Cortina. Got this for you, too – had to have the chain replaced.' Sam's eyes widen a bit further. Thinks back to when he last wore that. When he remembers it being torn away._

_Barely feels his hand reaching up to rub at his shoulder, remembers the snap of bone, the pop, when he wasn't sure if it was just a dislocation, or something much, much worse. 'Oh. Forgot about that. It was broken when...'_

_He trips through the beating... the kicking... down on the ground, helpless, when he'd tried to fight back but he hadn't been able to, not at that point. He hates Gene thinking of him as a damsel in distress. But Sam had fought, and then he'd been overwhelmed. He doesn't like thinking about that truth. Then, sighing as he breathes out, he licks his lips, nervously, rubs at his shoulder once more. He remembers that night so clearly – the smell of the air, the grit beneath his feet, the frantic pace of his heart – and there, across the way... 'That girl, yeah? Saw her across the street. Suppose she must have gotten a good look at what was going on. Glad she did.'_

_Gene nods, simple as that. 'Wouldn't have known the trouble you were in if not for her. Mackey was being a bastard at the time, the sort who was too stubborn to talk..'_

_Sam smiles, but he's holding onto his chain, staring at in wonder. 'Help me get it on, yeah?' He grits his teeth, grunting as he sits forward, slowly. He's told Gene he'll tell him when help is needed – actually, he promised, in a drugged daze the night before – but he remembers that, and he's going to make good on that promise as soon as he can. Doesn't need to be told when not to rush. Needs to work out what his body can take, what it can't._

_Muscles scream in protest, bone shifting, and Sam feels his breathing is somewhat more laboured, feels as well as hears the wheezing once he's managed to get himself into a sitting position, and all without Gene's help. Then, wordlessly, Gene steps closer, takes the chain from him, works it open, feels the fumble of it against his neck. Almost thinks he might tense, it seems so close to the burn, only... no, other than the odd itch, he's been told it's healing nicely. And it doesn't even make him twitch, the necklace being so close._

_Well, not this time, at least._

_He looks up at Gene, feels the chain resting lightly about his neck. Any moment now, and it could become too much. He has to hold on, though, hold out, maybe, that it won't be – that Sam's stronger than anything Mackey or his thugs ever did to him._

_Gene's words are simple enough. 'Ready to come home with me, Sam? Could just stay forever, if you'd like.'_

_Sam's chest aches, and he laughs – that pain bleeding out, giving him a moment of startling clarity. 'I... I've been waiting for you to ask, Gene.' Sam fights down the urge to laugh once more – how bloody Dorothy of him, putting it like that. He's sure Gene would agree._

_Silence, and then the conclusion, but that's simple enough as well. 'Took me a while to work up the nerve.'_

_He wants to close his eyes. Wants to run away. Sits instead, and feels, and lives. 'Yeah... okay then. I'd like that a lot.'_

_Gene's not put an end to his sanity yet. If anything, maybe Gene helps him hang on._


End file.
